


Ouroboros

by NinPotato



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (sometimes), All the usual stuff you'd expect here, Alpha Will Graham, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Bondage, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Bottom Will Graham, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dark Will Graham, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Knotting, Light BDSM, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal Lecter, Medical Procedures, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Murder Family, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Plot With Porn, Politics, Sassy Will Graham, Season/Series 01, Secret Relationship, They Flip!, Top Hannibal Lecter, Top Will Graham, Weird Biology, Will Graham Doesn't Need Help, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham doesn't have encephalitis, alphas and some omegas have fangs and venom, but everyone and himself still thinks he does, horrifying nightmare imagery, mentions of mpreg, mentions of rape/implied rape, omega verse-typical dubious consent, only somewhat canon compliant, season 1 AU, typical omega verse made about as scientific as possible, will graham's dark past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 79,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25817311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinPotato/pseuds/NinPotato
Summary: “Are you glad you killed him?”Will nearly flinches at the nonchalant way Hannibal tosses that out there, but he catches himself just in time.“Considering that’s how he became dead, yeah.  I guess so.”Hannibal nods again, then takes a deep breath like he’s preparing himself for what’s to come.“Are you satisfied with the way you killed him?”“What do you mean?” Will asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows.  It wouldn’t do to act out again just minutes after his apology for the last time he acted out, even if Hannibal really does invite it this time.“If you could go back to that very moment where you held the man’s life in your hands, would you choose the same path?  Would you savagely tear him apart with tooth and nail, or would you choose a different method?  Perhaps one considered to be more...humane?”-∞-Will Graham isn't like most alphas.  Hannibal Lecter isn't like most omegas.  A beta society isn't equipped to handle either.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 74
Kudos: 272
Collections: Bottom Hannibal Day, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter





	1. Fangs

**Author's Note:**

> Finally writing my first full-length Hannibal fic over a year and a half after I finished the show for the first time. I'm posting this just half an hour before #BottomHannibalDay ends (the event for which this originally single-chaptered work was intended), so this is rushed and unbeta'd. Please excuse any mistakes you come across!
> 
> \---
> 
> "The Ouroboros is a Greek word meaning "tail devourer," and is one of the oldest mystical symbols in the world. It can be perceived as enveloping itself, where the past (the tail) appears to disappear but really moves into an inner domain or reality, vanishing from view but still existing.
> 
> The ouroboros has several meanings interwoven into it. Foremost is the symbolism of the serpent biting, devouring, or eating its own tail. This symbolizes the cyclic Nature of the Universe: creation out of destruction, Life out of Death. The ouroboros eats its own tail to sustain its life, in an eternal cycle of renewal." -Token Rock

Home. A steady place of warmth, family, and safety. Somewhere to come back to every day; to relax and distance oneself from life’s struggles. Life’s horrors. Life’s beauty. Mrs. Stanson is beautiful – in a chilling, sad kind of way – sprawled over her living room couch as though she were modeling for a portrait, head tilted towards the loveseat where one would expect an artist to sit, sketching away.

But the artist is long gone, as is Mrs. Stanson herself. Whoever painted this picture did so quickly, brutally and mindlessly. There appears to be more blood on the walls than there is left around Mrs. Stanson, slowly dripping from the leather cushions to the now-stained hardwood floor. What’s left of Mrs. Stanson’s ruined clothes does nothing to hide the mutilated flesh beneath. Countless cuts are visible: deep and ragged, barely leaking. Mrs. Stanson died quickly, but painfully.

“I’m calling it now – alpha male, mid thirties, issues with the ladies,” says Brian, “Big ones.”

“Oh come on, you _always_ say that!” Jimmy complains.

“That’s because it’s true a good 30% of the time in these cases. And I like to win.”

“Yeah, but you should give somebody else a chance for once…”

Will sighs, adjusting his glasses and tuning out their friendly bickering. As Patricia Stanson’s body grows colder, so does the trail leading to her killer. He’s working on gathering enough courage to politely request that he be allowed to do his job when he’s interrupted by another member of the team.

“Ignore those two, they don’t really mean anything by it,” she says. “Just beta talk. Will Graham, right?”

“Uh, yes. Who’s asking?”

“Beverly. Beverly Katz.”

“You’re an alpha,” Will says more than asks.

“Yup. Smelled it on you from across the room – don’t worry, I won’t tell. Not worth outing myself. And besides, it’s not often two of us end up in a room together.”

“There is in fact a biological reason for that. One you don’t seem beholden to.”

“You’re a dude, you’re new,” Beverly says with a small shrug. “I’m bored and need someone to talk to about, you know. Alpha stuff.”

“I don’t, um…” Will stutters, silently wishing for something like Mrs. Stanson’s transformation into a flesh-eating zombie to save him from this awkward interaction.

“Not asking you to be my friend, just. Friendly.”

What he wants to say is “No thanks, I have plenty of dogs,” but that’s incredibly weird and rude first and foremost, on top of being just downright depressing, so what he actually says is:

“This is the part where I warn you that I’m not so good at the, uh, socializing thing.”

“No pressure, man,” Beverly assures him, undeterred. “You can be a brick wall if you want, just let me bounce some words off of you every once in a while.”

Will determines this one clearly isn’t going down without a fight. Still, he doesn’t yet know if this is a one-time thing, and he doesn’t want to spoil the atmosphere from here on out, so he reluctantly calls on the authority of Jack Crawford as his last resort.

“It’s nice to meet you, Beverly, but I need to be alone with this. Jack should've warned you –”

“Oh, he did,” Beverly interrupts. “I just didn’t listen. Nice meeting you, Will!”

And just like that, she’s out of his hair.

∞

_He’s done this plenty of times before. Not here, not now, not to these people, but it’s familiar all the same. He knows this, knows the process like it’s the back of his hand at this point. He won’t screw up this time. If he does, it’ll be alright. They’ll handle it._

_He jumps the fence, quietly landing in the Stansons’ backyard. It’s quite large, even when compared to those of other homes in the neighborhood. Wasteful._

_He saunters up to the backdoor, wholly unconcerned about being seen. After all, it’s almost dawn and the Stansons aren’t home. They made sure of that._

_There’s a keypad on the door. He doesn’t know the code, but it doesn’t matter. He pulls out his kit, dusts the keys for fingerprints. Several of the numbers have prints. He’s not sure of the order, but it doesn’t matter either. Not one bit._

_He presses the keys in numerical order. The code is incorrect, but he anticipated that. He only has a short amount of time to enter the right code and avoid having the police called, or to contact SafeLink support for help. He does neither, entering a totally different code instead._

_Bingo._

_He presses the 0 key three times and the door is open._

_“Babe? Did you change your mind –”_

_Mrs. Stanson comes around the corner. Freezes when she sees him –sees them **.**_

_A flash, a scream, and then it’s all red. This was not supposed to happen –Mrs. Stanson was not supposed to be here! They’re calling his name, telling him to stop, but he can’t stop. He’s angry, upset, disappointed in himself and he can’t stop. Something is pushing him and he can’t control it, it’s not him. It’s not him but it is now. He swallowed it and now it’s his –_

“What are you thinking, Will?”

Will blinks, yanked out of the home intruder’s mind by the voice behind him. He turns away from the keypad and towards Jack Crawford himself.

“I was thinking you weren’t gonna be here until later,” Will says, settling his gaze on the back of one of the local police officers.

“I wrapped things up quicker than I thought I would. Do you see one killer or more?”

“Just one,” Will says, “Killer, I mean. But there’s multiple intruders.”

Jack nods. “That’s what I was thinking. Too much is missing, especially for one person.”

“I would need to have seen the others in person to be sure, but I have a hunch all the recent home invasions share perps.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Upper class and upper middle class homes, nice neighborhoods, families with a tendency to leave on a moment’s whim. The signs all point to organized robbery, save for the bodies.”

Jack moves to open the back door, sending Will a look that commands him to follow. They make their way back to Mrs. Stanson, squeezing between the milling bodies taking records and collecting evidence.

“The signs all point to organized robbery,” Jack repeats, shaking his head. “But this just screams ‘grudge’ to me.”

“Screams are distracting. It’s easy to miss the whisper of truth if you’re too busy covering your ears.”

“My ears aren’t covered,” Jack huffs, “I’m just not hearing any whispers.”

“I don’t know enough yet,” Will admits, “But I’m almost certain the killer had no relation to Mrs. Stanson. This was meant to be a robbery and nothing more, but Mrs. Stanson was here when she wasn’t supposed to be. I’d wager the others were as well.”

“You think they panicked? Even if they meant to punish her for ruining their plans, this is just too much.”

“You’re right. There’s something we’re missing…”

“Ah-hah! Gotcha!”

Jimmy Price’s triumphant voice comes from behind them.

“What’d you find?” Jack demands.

“Not sure yet,” Jimmy says as he stands from where he's been kneeling on the floor, “But it’s definitely not supposed to be here.”

In his left hand is a small glass vial, filled with just a centimeter of some clear liquid. Beverly comes up behind him as he twists the cap on.

“Could be venom,” she says. “Maybe he bit her, got carried away and dripped some on the floor.”

“You could be right,” Jack says. “Run it through ASAP. We meet at the lab tomorrow at 8:00 AM sharp.”

A couple of enthusiastic “yes sir”s (and one less than enthusiastic), and then they disperse.

∞

It isn’t easy being an alpha.

Popular media loves to glorify the rare secondary gender as much as it loves to demonize it. Alphas are strong, confident, and virile, but they’re also angry, violent, and pushy. They’re the best at what they do. They’re not that smart. They’ll do anything to protect their loved ones. They’ll prey on anyone they think is weaker than them.

Too many contradictions; too many of them true.

Statistically, alphas are more prone to violence than betas. They have considerably higher rates of spousal abuse, battery, and murder. The percentage of alpha rapists is so high compared to their percentage of the general population that it’s required by law, in most states, for every alpha to notify the SGIC, or the Secondary Gender Integration Committee, of a change of address, so every household in the area can receive an automated text message about a potential predator moving in. Will distinctly remembers a family down in Louisiana moving out of their home when they realized the Grahams were moving in. It was such a waste too–Will barely had time to start the new school year before his dad was pulling him out and dragging him off to Alabama.

On the other hand, alphas are overall much better with children than betas of the same primary gender. One would think a people known for beating their wives wouldn’t hold back from beating their kids as well, but it’s actually pretty rare. There have been multiple studies done on the subject, but no one can seem to figure out if it’s some innate need to protect offspring or if it’s just something learned and passed on.

Will really can’t be bothered to know; he just wants to be left alone. He doesn’t want to start a family. He doesn’t want to fight to the death over some pretty little omega. He doesn’t want to be the best; he just wants to be alright. He wants to get paid, go fishing, and play with his dogs. He doesn’t want anyone forming opinions based on his fangs, his eyes, or (god forbid) his knot. So he keeps his anger in check, sprays himself with cheap cologne until it nearly chokes him, and doesn’t leave his little farmhouse at all for two weeks out of the year–once in the spring and once in the fall. He has next to no interest in participating in the mating season events, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit lonely when these times came around. It passes, though. It always does.

He’s given up the ‘Great Alpha Dream,’ as it’s often called, in favor of the ‘Mediocre Hermit Dream.’ It’s better this way, for himself and everyone around him. Can’t get hurt nor hurt anyone else if he’s never in a situation where that’s a possibility in the first place. Dogs are much better than people anyways. Feed them and take care of them and they’ll love you for the rest of their short lives. Dogs don’t care what or who you are, they only care about food and attention. Give them lots of both and they’ll stay loyal to you and no one else. It’s better than anything Will could ever ask from another person.

“Isn’t that right, Winston?” Will asks aloud, scruffing the newest addition to his pack.

Winston huffs and wags his tail, delighted by the smallest touch. Simple and problem-free.

Before long, the other dogs start crowding around him, eager for some attention. Will does his best to give them all equal amounts of it, even going so far as to count the number of pets each dog receives, lest anybody feel left out.

“Buster,” Will laughs. “Wait your turn, buddy!”

The small terrier has shoved his way in between Max and Jack, hopping up and down impatiently in an attempt to bump his head against Will’s hand. In a rare show of favoritism, Will scoops him up and sits him on his lap. He lets Buster lick his face as he rubs his head affectionately, laughing the whole time. At the sound of Ellie whining, Will lets Buster back down and effectively trades the two. The petting session lasts at least another twenty minutes before Will sends everyone, including himself, to bed.

That night, he dreams of Mrs. Stanson and an uncontrollable hunger.

∞

“I was right, it’s venom! Just...not the kind I was expecting,” Beverly announces.

Will is lucky (or perhaps unlucky?) that he wakes at around 5:00AM this morning covered in his own sweat. Somehow, he had forgotten to set his alarm the night before. After shaking off the residual terror of his nightmares, however, he has plenty of time left to let the dogs out, make himself a quick breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs and a stale blueberry muffin, and take a shower before making the long drive to the lab.

“You mean to tell me this is _omega_ venom?” Jack asks, one incredulous eyebrow raised.

“Sure is,” says Brian. “We tested and retested and tested again just to be sure.”

Will adjusts his glasses and crosses his arms, waking up with interest at this new information. None of the cases he’s lectured on nor any of the ones he’s personally worked on have involved a single omega.

Overall, omegas represent about 15% of the population, meaning there are roughly three times as many of them as there are alphas. However, only around 3% of omegas actually have fangs and produce venom, the other 97% being female. Omegas, regardless of sex, are also overwhelmingly non-violent by nature. The few crimes that can be attributed to them are never quite so serious as murder.

“I mean it’s not impossible,” Jimmy says, “There’s a first time for everything, right?”

“Wouldn’t even be the first time, though,” Beverly interjects, “Remember Roxane Waters? That chick who went apeshit back in the 60’s and killed six alpha men and their families?”

“Ohhhh, yeah that’s right. How could I forget her?” Jimmy pantomimes a facepalm. “She was just so creepy during the trial...really freaked me out as a kid.”

“Didn’t they make a slasher flick based on her? I remember that being really good,” Brian says.

“Okay! Enough about Waters,” Jack says with a resounding clap of his hands. “Let’s get back on topic please. So we’ve found omega venom at the crime scene. Have we found any in Mrs. Stanson’s bloodstream?”

“Now this is where it gets kinda weird – no,” Beverly says. “Not a trace. So either –”

“She wasn’t bitten,” Will interrupts, the truth of the matter slowly coming to him in vague, abstract shapes. “Did you find anything else on the floor with the venom? Like a small bottle, or?”

“Nothing as obvious as that,” says Beverly, “just a bunch of broken glass shards, plastic bits, fabric, other various bits and pieces of things that must have been broken during the struggle. Why?”

“I’m...not sure yet. I just know it wasn’t an omega who killed her.”

“Is that you talking, or is it your alpha?”

Will whips his head towards Jack, fangs poking out just a bit from his gums in response to being suddenly outed. He feels more than sees Brian and Jimmy moving away from him, putting the examination table where Mrs. Stanson lay between them. Scared, perhaps. One can never know when the big bad alpha’s going to turn his ire on you just for being there.

For his part, Jack looks totally uncaring. He waits patiently, shoulders set and fingers laced in front of him. Will imagines, briefly, bending each of those thick, meaty fingers backwards until they break. The imagined, hyper-realistic sound of it startles him so much that his fangs shoot back up into his gums quickly enough to hurt. Jack clears his throat expectantly, and Will blinks at him in confusion for a second before remembering that: one, Jack is a beta and has no idea what just almost happened, and two, he’s still waiting on an answer to his earlier question.

“It’s, uh. It’s me. No, it’s neither. It’s just an objective fact. The presence of omega venom at a crime scene doesn’t have to mean an omega was there.”

“Then pray tell, how did –” Jack starts. “Oh, I see. You’re suggesting the killer does Snake Bite.”

Will nods. A not-so-secret secret name for raw omega venom, passed around with the intention of ingesting it in quantities large enough to boost an individual’s sex drive, stamina, and muscle growth. Besides increased risk of heart problems, it has another particularly negative side effect commonly referred to as “Alpha Rage.”

“So...technically I wasn’t too far off with my initial guess?” Brian says, eyes darting cautiously between Will and Jack.

“Oh come on, we’re barely getting started. There’s no way to know if –”

“Ladies, please!” Jack bellows. “Let’s stay on topic!”

Beverly comes around the examination table towards Will with a sheepish smile. Looks like she wants to explain that it wasn’t her who told Jack, even though Will knows it wasn’t. He isn’t sure how exactly Jack knows, but he’s known ever since he accosted Will in his classroom the day he brought him onto the case. He just wishes the man had kept that information to himself.

“I ran the venom through a DNA test too,” Beverly says. “We’ve got a match – one Trey Jones.”

Local police are called on to raid the apartment on file, and Trey Jones is in front of them about an hour and a half later. It takes a single look at the man – boy, really – for Will to not only accept his innocence as fact, but to also be upset at Jack for even bothering to bring him in.

Trey Jones is twenty-one years old, five feet and six inches tall exactly. He’s slight, can’t weigh more than a hundred and fifteen pounds, and looks totally incapable of harming a fly. He’s dark-skinned, wearing his braided hair up in a loose ponytail of sorts, and he’s clothed in a well-worn grey hoodie and ripped, faded-out jeans. He’s trying his best to be brave but Will can smell the terror radiating off of him in waves, a bitter, burning smell not dissimilar to a weakened version of that which comes with cheap hand sanitizer. Will feels dirty for being even remotely associated with the people who snatched him up and locked him in the cold interrogation room he currently sits in, rubbing his hands up and down his arms in an attempt to warm himself up.

The interrogation itself, so far, has gone absolutely nowhere. Trey insists he has no idea how his venom ended up at a crime scene, that he’s never heard of any of the victims, and that he’s never given any of his venom away. That last part is an obvious lie, and everyone knows it. Trey himself seems well enough aware, but he doesn’t relent when it gets pointed out. Eventually, they have to let him go.

“Don’t follow him,” Will requests as soon as Jack is within earshot.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were going to have him followed. Don’t.”

Jack opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but Will continues.

“I’ll find him.”

“We need – what? What do you mean you’ll find him?”

“He knows how this works. Or at least he thinks he does. Once he thinks we’ve given up on him, he’ll let his guard down. He lives up near the east side, right? I’m willing to bet his base of operation is somewhere around the bars there,” Will suggests.

“So you’re just going to...go undercover? See who’s buying?” Jack looks less apprehensive with every word. “That’s hardly standard protocol but it might just work. You’re not FBI nor police, and you don’t look like either.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Wasn’t a compliment but you can take it however you like,” Jack says, clapping Will over the shoulder. “Just don’t lose him. He’s the only lead we have.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

∞

Sitting on a half-frozen bench under an equally frozen maple tree with an untouched caramel macchiato, watching boisterous college students walking to and fro is by no means what Will expected his weekend to look like. He has no one but himself to blame for the situation, but he’s bitter nonetheless. The coffee probably isn’t necessary, but he felt like he needed something to pretend to do if someone irrelevant tries to make eye contact with him. He can just stare at his coffee instead like it’s some puzzle he has to decipher.

He hasn’t needed it yet, but he also hasn’t really started on what he came out here to do. He is not, in fact, just people watching on a chilly Saturday morning. He is watching for someone who looks like they know what Snake Bite is, someone who knows what it feels like. He thinks the girl in the tye-dye skirt might be it until she turns around, putting the front of her “Proud Vegan!” shirt in his line of sight.

He keeps watching, comparing each person to a mental checklist of various points he came up with on his drive to campus. The blonde? No, she’s too proper. Not in a “secretly does drugs to spite her parents” kind of way. The short kid with the fanny pack? No, he definitely smokes marijuana but that’s it. He never actually goes through that gate; just pokes his head in and decides it’s not for him. White guy with the dreads though…

Will jumps to his feet. He takes a deep breath and mentally shakes himself into his role: Desperate, recently unemployed druggie looking for a hit of something that’ll make him feel strong and confident; a healthy dose of alpha rage to replace his beta depression.

“Hey man, you got a second?” Will calls out to Dreads, shoulders slumped as far as he can get them.

Dreads makes eye contact, then glances around himself.

“Who, me?” He asks, pointing at his chest.

“Yeah, can you, uh…” Will shuffles forward uneasily, gaze darting to and fro like he doesn’t want to get caught talking to Dreads. This part isn’t really acting; he doesn’t want to talk to anyone most days.

Thankfully, Dreads doesn’t just turn around and hightail it in the other direction. Will figures his performance is either very convincing or very unconvincing as he stays rooted to the spot, looking down at Will with concern.

“What d’you need, man? You need me to get someone for you?”

“Someone who has something,” Will says, emphasizing the ‘thing.’ “Something...not easy to find.”

“Like…?”

“Like, you know...something with fangs.”

Dreads gives him this look; one he’s seen so many times he’s surprised it still upsets him. A look that’s both pitying and distrusting at the same time, like the one giving it wants to feel bad for him but isn’t sure it’s worth it, or if he actually deserves it.

“Why?” Dreads asks, “You a cop or somethin’?”

“Used to be,” Will admits.

Dreads snorts, waving a dismissive hand at Will. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he notices Will isn’t laughing and gets serious again.

“Wait, for real?

“Yeah, listen…” Will begins, “Life’s been one hell of a struggle these days. I’ve tried everything I can get my hands on but nothing’s working. I really shouldn’t be here, I know, can’t get caught going around asking these kinds of things to the wrong people. So do me a favor and point me in the right direction, yeah?” Will claps his hands together in front of him as if praying, and gives him the best puppy dog eyes he can muster. “Please?”

“Shit man, I feel ya. Times are tough,” says Dreads, scratching the back of his head. “Now I don’t go out there myself but I heard there’s some real O’boy out on Fifth dealing. I don’t know about it but my girl’s bestie says it’s legit.”

Will heaves a genuine sigh of relief. Regardless of whether or not Trey himself is the “O’boy” in question, he’s bound to learn something at least marginally useful about the east side’s Snake Bite trade.

“I’ll check it out. Thank you.”

“No problem, man. Good luck!”

∞

Fifth avenue isn’t quite as bustling as Will expected. Then again, it is approximately – Will checks his watch – 10 in the morning, and cold enough that even his smallest breaths look like they could be coming from a dragon’s gaping maw. Cold enough that he actually drinks that coffee, which is itself too cold now to really help.

The few people he sees out and about are bundled up, huddling close together. A homeless man has started a fire in a garbage bin, rubbing his hands over it and eyeing the young woman across from him with interest. She clearly wants to get closer to the fire yet further away from the man making a show of how nice and warm it is. On the other side of the street there’s a bar called “The Silver Serpent.” The wall facing the road is covered almost entirely by a painting of a scaly woman in a bikini lying on her chest and making a “come hither” gesture. It must be open early as the door flies open and out comes a rowdy group of drunk college kids. Will accidentally makes eye contact with one of them and promptly ignores whatever incoherent nonsense she yells at him.

He keeps walking, taking deep breaths as he scents the air for even the slightest hint of omega pheromones. Mostly he just smells booze, engine oil, and what he thinks is Thai food – spicy and with that subtle tang only asian sauces have. Immediately, his traitor stomach starts to grumble. He’s seriously considering stopping at whatever shop is producing such enticing smells when he catches sight of none other than Trey Jones himself.

He's leaning up against the side of what looks to be an abandoned building, chatting casually with a woman Will immediately clocks as an off-duty sex worker. The woman flips her hair over her shoulder, and something she says has Trey bent over laughing. Another young woman approaches him with a nervous smile –unusually shy for an alpha –and passes him a couple bills. Trey hands over a small jar full of clear liquid and she walks back the way she came: transaction complete.

His face must betray his intentions as the sex worker sees Will striding up to them and urgently taps Trey on the shoulder to get his attention, pointing an aggressive finger at the interloper. Trey tenses up for just a second before dashing off into a small alleyway behind him.

"Hey! Wait!" Will yells after him as he gives chase.

Besides the occasional nighttime run, Will has never been particularly active. Especially for an alpha. He realizes pretty much from the bat that his chances of catching up to Trey, a kid who ran track in high school according to the file they pulled on him, are slim. As the gap between them widens and Will nearly trips and falls face-first into a pile of trash, he realizes he's going to have to do something drastic to avoid losing him. He stops in the middle of another alley to catch his breath and lets Trey out of his sight.

Uncomfortably aware of the silent judgement he's getting from the man smoking a cigar behind him, Will moves out of the alley and onto an empty, dead-end road. He closes his eyes and takes a couple of deep breaths, focusing all of his attention on that cheap hand sanitizer smell, focusing on the over-ripened citrus notes hidden underneath it. He lets every coherent thought vacate his brain to make room for something that's purely instinctual: a red-hot need that flows through his veins like molten lava, burning everything it touches with the heat of its strength and solidifying as it cools into something solid.

Will didn't think he would ever need this particular ritual, especially not in a situation like this. It's generally an unspoken rule that alphas shouldn't go red, as it's called, in public. Going red is when an alpha intentionally suspends conscious thought and lets pure instinct take total control over their actions.

At least that's how betas describe it.

Contrary to popular belief, going red doesn't turn alphas into mindless beasts. They're still conscious, still aware of themselves as people, but they process things slower. They take in stimuli from their environment much faster and physically react just as quickly, leaving their thoughts to catch up later. The stigma attached to the event is mostly due to the unfortunate way that an alpha's outward appearance doesn't properly reflect what's going on inside his head. To a beta, a red alpha enjoying an advanced game of tag with his kids looks like a wild loony bin escapee at best.

That’s probably how Will looks right now to the motorcyclist as he darts in front of him to cross the street. Somewhere in the back of his mind is a part that’s aware that he’s making a not-inconsequential amount of people uncomfortable. The rest of it just doesn’t give a damn.

When he does this, everything is tinged red, like he's looking through a colored filter. It's reminiscent of the way everything looks through those cheap 3D glasses they used to give out at movie theatres, but lacking the blue as well as most of the details. But it's not just his vision that's filtered – Will's nose is no longer distracted by the promise of food or the stink of industrial poverty. He's locked onto Trey’s scent like a shark on the first drop of blood, miles away but so, so close. It’s mere minutes before he catches sight of his target again.

Trey is doubled over, leaning his weight forward on his knees, chest expanding and contracting with the deep breaths he’s taking. More of a sprinter than a marathon runner, then. Too bad for him; it’s a great relief for Will.

Trey looks up as those around him at the crowded bus stop start to notice Will’s approach. A little girl in a blue dinosaur shirt tugs on her father’s sleeve and points directly at him.

“Daddy! Daddy, alpha!”

As the girl is swept up into her father’s fearful arms and the crowd parts like the sea did for Moses, Trey turns and sees him. Expecting a remix of what had just happened, Will is distantly surprised when he crashes right into the omega, effectively tackling him to the ground and knocking the air out of him. His fangs unsheathe themselves as he snarls at his prey, pinning him to the sidewalk and–

“W-wait! Stop, please!”

Will’s vision clears and returns to normal as he snaps out of it. Everything he’d been ignoring while red comes rushing back to the surface, and for a moment, he’s horrified. What exactly was he about to do just then, before Trey spoke?

“Sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“Please. Please don’t,” Trey begs, shaking.

“Yes, 911? Yeah there’s this alpha guy at the bus stop on 11th and Fresno– he just assaulted this poor kid, and I don’t know what to do...”

Will clears his throat to disguise a frustrated laugh that worms its way out of him before sitting back on his heels, then standing as normally and non-threateningly as he can. He means to help Trey up as well, but the poor kid’s got his face covered with both hands and has curled himself up into a mockery of the fetal position

“I didn’t mean to knock you down like that,” he continues, unsure of how he should proceed. “I just really need to talk to you and, well. You’re really good at, uh, running fast. Didn’t think I could catch up with you if I didn’t….hey, you okay?”

He leans forward, reaching out to touch Trey’s shoulder.

“Just arrest me already!” Trey shouts, flinching away from his hand. “Quit fuckin’ ‘round and arrest me! You ain’t need to do all this!” The last bit is punctuated by an aggressive hand wave towards himself.

“I don’t want to arrest you, Trey. I don’t have the authority to do that even if I wanted to.” Will kneels next to him –slowly, so as not to spook him. “I just need your help.”

“No, you ain’t getting no help from me. Word gets out I’ve been talkin’ to cops, nobody’s gonna buy nothin’. How I’m gonna pay the bills then?”

“Nobody’s gonna know that if you don’t tell them. Listen, Trey – people are dead, okay? Someone’s been going around high on _your_ venom and killing people. You aren’t in trouble and you’re not going to be –not for that, not ever–if you help us find out who it is.”

“Why the hell should I trust you?” Trey spits, finally bringing himself up to a seated position. “You just went red and tried to kill me or somethin’.”

The sensation of his fangs in Trey’s throat, not injecting but tearing, shredding, mauling until no life remains, comes unbidden. Will shakes his head, both to deny Trey’s claim and to dispel the disturbing fantasy.

“Didn’t mean to – thought you were gonna run again. Just hear me out, okay? Listen–you help us out with this one case, you maybe save some lives, the FBI will leave you alone. You hear me?

“You ain’t answer my question.”

“Because,” Will sighs, “I want to protect you.”

Trey pauses in his stretching, eyebrows furrowed as he scrutinizes Will for something to indicate his honesty or lack thereof.

“Why?” He asks.

“Because you haven’t done anything wrong,” Will explains. “Just what you needed to do to survive. That’s all any of us can do, in the end.”

Something in his tone must have been convincing enough because Trey nods.

“Okay,” he concedes. But I’m not talkin’ to that big guy again.”

“Jack?” Will huffs a quiet laugh. “I can’t blame you.”

“I’m only talking to you.”

Will stares at Trey for a moment, bewildered. How on earth this kid went from being terrified of him to angry and distrusting and then to...whatever this is, he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t bother to ask, giving Trey a hand and pulling him to his feet. At the sound of sirens in the distance growing closer, Will quickly leads Trey back to where his trusty old Volvo is parked.

He calls Jack as they pull out of the parking lot to let him know they’re on their way and that they’re to be left alone – preferably in a room that’s at least 65 degrees. They find themselves seated across from each other in a mini sauna (86 degrees, according to the thermostat) instead.

Lucky for them, Trey has an excellent memory. He gives Will a complete list of around a dozen names and detailed descriptions for those whose names he never learned. Out of these, one in particular catches Will’s attention: mixed guy, early 20’s, crew-cut hair, black Nike t-shirt and shorts –always, regardless of weather. Weirdly aggressive, practically throws his cash when buying. Doesn’t complain when Trey ups the price every once in a while, just for him. Often brings a friend or two –usually a blonde girl and a white guy with dreads, fancy clothing, expensive name-brand watches and sunglasses. Never the same outfits.

Will circles this part, makes a note for Jack to make a real effort here. The sketch artists are brought in and Will thinks back to his conversation with Dreads when they get to the white guy. It would be quite the coincidence, but Will has learned in his approximate 34 years on this planet that anything is possible. They get through the sketches pretty quickly thanks to Trey’s memory and the efficiency of the artists, and a lightbulb flashes on in Will’s head.

“Do you like dogs?” He springs the question on Trey just as soon as they’re free from the sweltering room.

“Yeah, I like dogs. Grew up with a whole bunch of ‘em when I was a kid at my dad’s place. Why?”

“Well, as you can imagine, I’m pretty busy with all of...this,” Will gestured at the room. “I live out in remote Wolf Trap, Virginia. I have seven dogs and–”

“Seven? No way!” Trey laughs. His grin is infectious.

“Yeah, seven, and I can’t always get someone to watch them. So...would you be interested in watching them from time to time?”

Trey’s eyebrows shoot up nearly into his hairline.

“I’ll pay you, of course,” Will assures. “I don’t know how much you make...otherwise, but I promise they’re all very well-behaved and easy to love. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier than chewing on a drainer for a couple hours ‘til your jaw locks up.”

“Well, yeah but. How do I get there?”

“Yeah, don’t. Don’t worry about that –I’ll pay for that too. If you could see them all right now, you’d understand why I’m willing to go so far.”

“Okay, yeah, I get it! Man’s best friend and all that. Sure, why the hell not? Lemme give you my number.” He takes the pen and a mostly blank page of notebook paper out of Will’s hands and writes his number down.

Mission success.

∞

Will enters his classroom at Quantico two weeks later to thunderous applause. It’s entirely inappropriate on top of senseless, as Will isn’t even the one who solved the case.

When it seems like it’s been going on forever, Will raises a hand in a silent request for it to stop. It takes slightly longer than it should, but the applause eventually dies down.

“Baltimore’s Robin Hood,” He begins, gesturing at a mugshot of the very man behind him. “Stole from rich white folks and gave to underprivileged children of color. By the end of this lecture, I’ll have explained to you why this moniker is not quite as apt as it seems.”

He presses the ‘next’ button on his remote, and a different slide is displayed on the board behind him – titled “Victims.” Will gives a brief description of every victim and what was taken from each home before arriving at Mrs. Stanson.

"This break-in was, on the surface, just the same as all the others. Mark and Melissa gathered their intel, most of it from a mutual acquaintance: Isaiah Bloomhart. They confirmed that the Stansons were leaving for their vacation at 4:00PM on November 13th. Mark and Melissa watched them leave for the airport, then left to pick up Joey from his house."

Will pauses long enough to show the next slide: Mrs. Stanson's corpse.

"This is where they messed up," he says, "Somewhere between them leaving and bringing Joey back, Mrs. Stanson herself had returned. There was no vehicle present at the home, indicating that her husband had turned around and dropped her off back at home or that she had gotten someone else to do it. We suspect there was a disagreement between the Stansons, one big enough to change Mrs. Stanson's mind about the vacation. As of this morning, nearly two weeks after her death, Mr. Stanson has yet to be notified of the situation. He's still in the Bahamas and refuses to answer his phone."

It's then that Will notices movement out of the corner of his eye, near the door. He intends to continue as normal but Jack's booming voice echoing throughout the room interrupts him.

"Alright, folks! Class is dismissed!"

Some of his students startle at the sound while others shoot confused looks between himself and Jack. A few remain seated, taking notes like usual –alphas, probably.

“I’m sorry, was I not clear enough?” Jack shouts. “Class. Is. Dismissed! Go on, get out of here!” He’s entirely unburdened by the exasperated glare he’s getting from one of the girls closest to him as even she recognizes his authority and crams her notebook into her bag, slinging it onto her shoulder and joining the throngs of students as they squeeze past Jack through the exit.

Will heaves a sigh and closes out the powerpoint on his laptop, replacing his remote and stuffing his own things into his cloth briefcase. It’s not until Jack is halfway through the room that Will’s nose detects an alluring scent he’s not familiar with: strong and woody, with notes of cedar, patchouli, and just a hint of saffron–certainly more expensive than any cologne he’s ever worn. It clearly belongs to the stranger accompanying Jack–a tall, broad-shouldered, attractive older gentleman– and not the man dismissing his class in the middle of his lecture. Will keeps his eyes on the latter, assuming he’ll be introduced soon enough.

“So, who’s dead now?” Will asks in lieu of a greeting.

“A lot of teenage girls,” Jack says, “Probably. All similar in appearance and too many to be a coincidence.”

“Probably?”

“We’ve got next to nothing. No motive, no suspects, no method, and only a single body. Eight disappearances so far, with another missing every couple of weeks.”

Will nods. With that level of activity there’s no way he’s going to be able to excuse himself from the case –especially after the last one’s success. The man curiously eyeing Will from behind Jack subtle clears his throat.

“Oh, I’m being rude,” Jack says as he takes a step to the side, gesturing for the other man to come forward. “Will, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Lecter, this is Will Graham.”

Dr. Lecter’s hand is warm as Will accepts his introductory handshake.

“Pleased to meet you, Will,” he says with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

They follow Jack back to his office to discuss the details of the case –The Minnesota Shrike, as this particular killer has been named. The first thing Will notices as he examines the evidence board is the overwhelming sameness of all the victims. They look as if they could all be sisters–brown hair, blue eyes, wind-chafed skin. He says as much aloud, and the other men agree.

“How many confessions so far?” Will asks.

“Twelve dozen last time I checked,” says Jack. “None of them knew details until this morning. And then everyone knew details. Some genius in Duluth PD took a picture of Elise Nichols’ body,” Jack points to the latest victim’s photo, “with their cell phone, shared it with a few friends, and then Freddie Lounds got ahold of it and ran it on Tattlecrime.com.”

“Tasteless,” Will interjects.

“Do you have trouble with taste?” asks Dr. Lecter at his side, with a strange yet almost imperceptible inflection punctuating the last word.

“My thoughts are often not tasty.”

“Nore mine,” says Dr. Lecter. “No effective barriers.”

“I build forts,” Will says, wondering where the hell this is going.

“Associations come quickly.”

“So do forts.”

A moment of silence passes, encouraging Will to make the mistake of assuming the doctor is finished with his incessant questions. The man in questions proves this assumption incorrect just a few seconds later.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?” It’s the worst one yet.

“Eyes are distracting,” says Will, unapologetically continuing to avoid eye contact,”You see too much, you don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking those whites are really white or they must have hepatitis, or is that an alpha red I see or just a couple of burst veins? So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”

That should be enough, right? Apparently not, as Dr. Lecter clearly doesn’t get the message and offers his unsolicited opinion.

“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams.” He may be the one right on target, but Will wants to toss a dart at him for it. “No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”

“Whose profile are you working on?” Will demands. When Dr. Lecter doesn’t immediately answer, he turns to Jack. “Whose profile is he working on?”

“I’m sorry, Will,” Hannibal apologizes, but it’s far from sincere. “Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed,” says Will, standing abruptly from his seat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalyzing.”

Will storms out, slamming the door closed behind him. He’s halfway back to his classroom before he remembers his class was dismissed. With a frustrated groan, he turns back and heads towards the parking lot, mentally cursing Jack for the surprise attack all the way to his car.

∞

Just a few days later, Will finds himself directly in front of his first Shrike kill. Or rather what he had expected to be his first Shrike kill, before he saw it in person. He had poured hours of scrutiny into the case files, particularly into the photos of Elise Nichols, and had determined there to be no real aggression in the killings. The Shrike loved these girls –or at least he loved the girl they all reminded him of. He wanted to honor them. Will wasn’t getting any of that from the scene laid out before him: another teenage girl, brown hair, presumably blue eyes, naked and impaled by her cradle of antlers, held up by a taxidermied deer head.

“I can’t tell if it’s sloppy or shrewd,” Jack admits.

“He wanted her to be found this way. It’s the homicidal equivalent of fecal smearing. It’s petulant. I almost feel like he’s mocking her,” says Will. “Or he’s mocking us.”

“Where’d all his love go?” Jack sighs.

“Whoever tucked Elise Nichols into bed didn’t paint this picture.”

“He took her lungs,” says Brian Zeller. “I think she was still alive when he cut them out.”

“Our cannibal loves women. He doesn’t want to destroy them,” says Will. He’s angry, offended by the display. “He wants to consume them, to keep some part of them inside. This girl’s killer thought she was a pig.”

“You think this is a copycat?” Jack questions, concern and irritation evident in his tone of voice.

“I don’t know,” Will admits. “The cannibal who killed Elise Nichols had a place to do it and no interest in...field kabuki. He has a house or two, or a cabin. Something with an antler room. He has a daughter. The same age as the other girls. Same hair color, same eye color, same height, same weight. She’s an only child. She’s leaving home. He can’t stand the thought of losing her. She’s his Golden Ticket.”

Will pauses, takes a few seconds to catch his breath. He thinks, distantly, that he really shouldn’t be this worked up. He wasn’t like this with the previous case, though he’ll admit the two can’t really be compared. Though violent, Mrs. Stanson’s death was an accident and the result of a common motive. This...tableau, however. This is neither an accident nor common. It’s meant to evoke a reaction and Will is proving it successful. The shrike alone has been consuming the entirety of his headspace, and he’s not sure there’s any room left for this copycat killer. He’s not sure he wants there to be. When no one speaks to him for longer than a minute, he stares at a single long blade of grass a few feet away and imagines all the different kinds of sticks he could be throwing for his dogs right now –if he wasn’t hundreds of miles away in Minnesota.

“How are we on the search for the source of that metal?” He hears Jack ask, inexplicably relieved it isn’t directed at him.

“Still looking,” Beverly answers, “But we’ve narrowed it down to a few places just outside of Minneapolis.”

Jack nods, and then, “Will!”

Will suppresses a groan, but he responds with a neutral “Yes?”

“You’re done for the day,” he says. “Go rest up. I’ll meet you at the hotel tomorrow and we’ll go and have a look at those construction sites.”

“We, meaning…?”

“You, myself, and Dr. Lecter.”

Will does groan this time, quietly, so he doesn’t get reprimanded, or worse –made to stare uselessly at the body for another fifteen minutes as punishment.

“Alright then. See you tomorrow.”

∞

There’s a knock on his hotel room door much too early the next morning. With a resigned sigh, Will clambers out of bed and hobbles to the door, pulling back the chain and unlocking it. The face he opens the door to –not Jack’s, surprisingly–has him regretting his state of undress for just a split second.

“Good morning, Will. May I come in?” Dr. Lecter speaks so fast it takes Will’s sleep-addled brain a moment to process what’s been said, so he just stands there for a few seconds too long before reluctantly stepping aside and allowing him entrance.

“Where’s Crawford?” He asks.

“Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today.”

They both take a seat at the small table in front of the window, the only source of light in the room as Will refuses to touch the lightswitch, and Dr. Lecter produces a couple of sealed bowls and thermoses from his bag.

“I’m very careful about what I put into my body,” he says, once again with that weird inflection, “which means I end up preparing most meals myself.” He unseals the plastic lid from the first bowl and sits it in front of Will. “A little protein scramble to start the day. Some eggs, some sausage.”

Will spears a piece of sausage and egg on his fork and takes a quick bite, eager to get at whatever’s in the thermos (coffee, he hopes). The sausage is soft and buttery, just a little spicy but not enough to cover up the umami flavor of the meat. The eggs are just as good –soft and fluffy in a way he can never get them and seasoned sparingly. He can’t help but give a pleased moan at the taste.

“It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” says Dr. Lecter, and there’s that tone again –subtle, but just underneath the surface, like it’s being intentionally hidden in a way where Will could easily dig it up if he wanted.

But he doesn’t want to, and it’s beginning to get on Will’s nerves for a reason he can’t explain. Rather than examining it too closely, he removes the cap on the thermos closest to him, breathing an audible sigh of relief when he smells that it is indeed coffee. He pours nearly half of it into one of the porcelain cups Hannibal also brought. He is wholly unsurprised to discover it tastes just as amazing as the scramble, but he refrains from complimenting it lest he boost the other man’s ego too much too soon.

Psychiatrists are _not_ friends, Will silently reminds himself.

“I would apologize for my analytical ambush,” Dr. Lecter says, gently scooping up a bit of his own scramble, “but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”

“Just keep it professional.”

Dr. Lecter blinks at him, attempting to establish eye contact and failing. It seems like Will’s retort isn’t something he wanted to hear, which is odd and perhaps a bit concerning for someone who’s entire job, at least for the moment, consists of psychoanalyzing while maintaining his distance. Will would be loath to admit he’s a bit...intrigued.

“Or we could socialize like adults,” says the Doctor, confirming Will’s suspicion. “God forbid we become friendly.”

Yeah, there’s definitely something going on here. Multiple somethings, actually: whatever Lecter is trying at, and the odd warmth Will is starting to feel. It’s relatively cool inside the room –no warmer than 68 degrees –but his cheeks are heating up. On top of that, there’s this distant buzzing sensation he can’t quite describe and, most concerningly, a growing tightness in his...pelvic area. It’s not time for his rut; the next one isn't until Spring. Delayed morning wood? Will flushes harder at the thought, makes a pitiful attempt at hiding it with another gulp of that unbelievably high-quality coffee.

“I don’t find you that interesting,” Will says around his cup.

“You will,” Dr. Lecter says matter-of-factly, like he’s talking about the weather.

It should be unnerving. Maybe it is, and Will is just too...distracted, to care. Instead, it convinces Will to hazard a glance at him, make actual eye contact, if only for a short while.

“Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters,” says Dr. Lecter. Will is grateful for the change in subject.

“I don’t think the Shrike killed that girl in the field.”

Lecter looks at him with interest and a single raised brow. He takes a second to chew his last bite before speaking again, as Will finishes the last of the coffee in his cup and pours himself some more. He doesn’t miss the way Lecter tracks the movement with a satisfied smile in his eyes. He definitely doesn’t miss the way the lower half of his body reacts in response. That...situation, seems to be getting worse despite their topic of conversation. Maybe it’s something in the coffee..?

“The devil is in the details. What didn’t your copycat do to the girl in the field that gave it away?

“Everything,” Will says with a sweeping gesture, winces when the movement makes him more aware of his body’s incessant demand for the sort of attention he can’t give it– not while Lecter’s seated right across from him. “It’s like he had to show me a negative so that I could see the positive.” He comes to this conclusion only as he says it. “It…” He heaves a frustrated sigh, rubbing the palms of his hands over his face. Yeah, definitely warm. He’s honestly surprised Lecter hasn’t asked him about it. “That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped.”

“Are you reconstructing the Shrike’s fantasies?” Lecter asks, “What kind of problems does he have?”

“Uh, he has a few,” Will says, taking another sip of his coffee. If it really did have something in it, he’s not sure he could bring himself to care. He just wouldn’t drink it in the company of others.

“You ever have any problems, Will?”

Will leans back a bit, puts a hand on his chest as if to say ‘me?’

“No,” he says aloud, sarcastic. _If only you knew the half of it_ isn’t spoken but implied.

“Of course you don’t,” says Lecter, totally honest. “You and I are just alike...problem free. Nothing about us to feel horrible about.”

Oh, if only that were true. Will doesn’t have the heart to tell Lecter he’s wrong, but there are several things he does indeed feel horrible about. A particularly relevant one is his ability to maintain a raging hard-on without giving any attention to it and discussing real-life serial murderers like he would the weather.

There’s a short moment where the only sound interrupting the relative silence of room number 33 is the clinking and scraping of forks on expensive plates. It should be a relief; Will has never been a very social person, and he lives out in the middle of nowhere for that very reason. However, there’s just something about the man across from him: maybe his lightly accented speech, maybe the way he picks Will apart without making him feel like a lab rat, that makes Will wish he could listen to him speak all day.

“You know, Will.” Lecter’s voice is like an ice pick, breaking through the thin layer of quiet which had solidified over their conversation. “I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest China used for only special guests.”

Will nearly chokes on his eggs. An alpha? Fragile? What Lecter has just implied, though he’s sure it’s a joke (and a damn good one at that), is hilarious in its absurdity. And yet it has some merit to it –Jack really does treat him like that, only brings him onto those special cases like the one they’re currently working on. He takes a moment to laugh after he swallows his food.

“How do you see me?” He asks, uncharacteristically desperate to know.

Lecter stares intently for a moment, considering.

“The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”

Both his words and the tone with which he speaks them are heated; in a way that would normally be disconcerting, had Will not been so...affected, at the moment. When Lecter remains quiet for some time, Will lets his gaze wander upwards. He lets it move over the Doctor’s face, mentally cataloguing every shape and line, every wrinkle around his eyes, including his eyes as well. He’s not bad to look at–not when his psychoanalyzing has been requested. Certainly not when he’s simultaneously describing Will as a vicious protector and staring at him like he’s a particularly tempting slab of fresh meat he’d like to bite into.

Will flinches a bit, tries to hide it by leaning forward and taking a rather aggressive bite of the meat on his plate when he feels his cock twitch in his boxers. Lecter smiles like he knows what’s going on, frustrating Will (and his cock) even further.

“Something wrong?” he asks, his tone playfully innocent. Flirty, even.

What the hell?

“Nope. I’m just fine, thanks,” Will says, punctuating the lie with an aggressive stab of his fork. It makes an awful sound against his plate. “What about you? You doing alright?”

“I’m also fine,” says Lecter, “but I could be better.”

That smile again. It remains until Lecter raises his own cup to his mouth, taking a rather large and loud drink which draws Will’s attention, probably intentionally, to his bobbing Adam’s apple. His eyes remain on Will’s all the while.

It’s the obviousness of the man’s actions, the absurdity of the scenario, or perhaps even something in Will’s red-hot alpha blood that gives him an unanticipated surge of confidence.

“Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but...are you flirting with me?” Will asks.

“Would you like to be flirted with?”

“Listen, doctor –”

“Hannibal.”

“...Hannibal. I don’t feel up to playing 20 questions right now. If you want something from me,” Will leans back, slinging his right arm over the top of his chair–a stereotypically alpha pose– “you’re going to have to ask.”

Dr. Lecter –no, Hannibal, Will mentally corrects himself, takes a good, long look at him. Will doesn’t move, doesn’t let the older man’s silence unnerve him as his erection throbs all the while. After some time, Hannibal relents.

“You could say I’m looking for a symbiotic relationship of sorts. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

Hannibal’s words are innocent enough on their own, but his tone of voice is downright lascivious. Will finds himself immensely relieved that he had not misunderstood his subtle social cues.

“Figuratively or literally?” Will asks, letting just a bit of heat flow through his words. The image of Hannibal’s short, clean nails raking lines down his back is a gift he accepts graciously from his subconscious.

“Both, if you’re up for it.”

While a part of him demands he bend Hannibal over the table right then and there, Will looks up at the ceiling and hums like he isn’t sure, like his dick hadn’t already decided twenty minutes ago, making Hannibal wait patiently for his decision. He may have overestimated how patient Hannibal is, however, as he speaks before Will can.

“I consider myself a purveyor of all things beautiful,” he says, face open and warm, “You may not realize it, but you’re very beautiful, Will. Even if it’s just for a moment, I’d like to have you. Or you could have me; whatever you prefer.”

On any other day, Will would have ducked his head, stumbling over something resembling a ‘thank you’ and turning red as a steamed lobster. He would have waved the offer away, and if the rejection didn’t turn the other party off, his awkwardness and complete lack of social decorum would.

But it’s not any other day, and there’s just something about the way Hannibal says it, the solid stone confidence he must have enabling him to make such a bold presumption. Something that rubs off onto Will himself and gives him the confidence to stand, willfully ignoring the near-painful way his cock strains against his boxers. Something that urges him to move forward after Hannibal stands, unabashedly eyeing his erection.

He does, reaching out with his right hand and pressing it against Hannibal’s chest – lightly first, then with increasing pressure until Hannibal is forced to press back or let himself be pressed up against the wall. He chooses the latter and Will steps in closer until there is no space left between them. Hannibal meets his gaze expectantly, head tilted to the side just a bit. Will cups the right side of his jaw with one hand and the left side of his neck with the other. He lets just the tiniest amount of red show through his irises – it’s as much warning as the other man gets before Will tilts his head to the side and buries his fangs in the exposed column of his throat, just below his jaw.

Hannibal’s arm darts out to grab Will’s, but he doesn’t pull on it, doesn’t make any sort of attempt to get Will to stop. His fangs remain where they’re lodged, injecting a small but steady stream of venom for a couple of seconds before Will disengages.

“The latter then, I suppose,” Hannibal huffs. He wears a small, mischievous grin but Will can see the venom quickly taking effect in his heated cheeks and glassy eyes.

As much a confirmation as anything, Will reaches between them and undoes Hannibal’s belt. He doesn’t break eye contact once while pulling it out through all the loops, an unbelievable occurrence which also feels like a direct contradiction to Hannibal’s earlier psychoanalysis.

Will drags him over to the bed and turns him so he’s facing it.

“Take these off,” He orders with a gentle pat to Hannibal’s backside.

Hannibal is slow at doing so –if Will hadn’t just bitten him, he would have thought Hannibal was trying to annoy him. A covert glance from the side reveals that, yes, Hannibal is in fact going as fast as he can with trembling fingers. Taking pity on him, Will reaches around and pulls his hands away, undoing Hannibal’s fly and ultimately removing his pants and unbelievably soft underwear. With a coaxing hand on his lower back, Hannibal climbs up onto the bed and leans forward onto his forearms with a harsh sigh.

Will thinks if there’s to be a point where he’ll snap out of the bizarre spell that’s been put on him, it’ll be right about now, while he’s presented with the unreal image of an attractive beta man –face down, ass up– waiting on the bed for him just a few days after they met and Will had immediately decided he hated him. Perhaps hate is too strong of a word. Words in general are starting to seem like a waste of time and energy.

Nearly vibrating with excitement at this point, Will shucks his own pants and underwear, hissing in discomfort as his cock pops free. He can’t remember having been this hard since puberty hit in the seventh grade. He has half the mind to just ram it in there and very nearly does before logical thought makes a brief visit, and he realizes that: one, that would be insanely rude, and two, it would also not be very fun for either of them. So he clears his throat and silently prays that Hannibal isn’t so far gone he can’t understand spoken word anymore.

“Do you have, um…”

At the sound of his voice, Hannibal pulls himself up a bit to look back at him. The look on his face – like he’s been getting dicked down this whole time and they’re just taking a short break–makes Will groan.

“Travel bag,” Hannibal says with noticeable difficulty. “Left...left pocket. On the inside.”

It’s in his hand so quickly Will doesn’t remember the journey to it and back. He doesn’t even have time to properly appreciate the absurd design on the luxury-brand lube container. It feels like it takes both seconds and months to get his fingers wet and inside the other man’s relaxed hole–Hannibal making irresistible noises below him all the while–and even longer to remember that he had also seen condoms in that bag.

With a frustrated snarl, Will tears himself away from the temptation laid out before him and rips into the box of condoms. Hannibal watches him lustfully and with, for maybe a second, something like gratitude while Will rolls the condom on and slicks himself up.

Will spreads Hannibal’s legs open and presses down on his spine, convincing him to bend just a little more. He does, and Will lines himself up, presses the head of his cock up against his asshole. He takes a single deep breath before slamming in, immediately burying himself up to the hilt.

Hannibal makes a sound that would have concerned him were he not entirely sure of the effects of alpha venom. At the moment, he’s unable to be concerned by anything other than the feeling of Hannibal’s inner walls squeezing the life out of him. He pulls back out, slowly, so he can really feel the drag of it. His hands rove aimlessly over Hannibal’s exposed skin, admiring the soft texture. He’s much softer than Will anticipated; both inside and out. Hannibal clenches down around him and it’s as good of a request to get moving as a verbal one. So he does, starting out with slow, shallow movements before gradually increasing the pace and depth. Hannibal’s panting harsh breaths to match every stroke and Will is taken aback by the sudden urge to drape himself over Hannibal’s back, tilt his head, and kiss him. He mentally files that away for later examination.

Before long, he’s pistoning his hips with abandon and Hannibal’s breathing is no longer audible over the filthy sounds of skin slapping skin. He pushes into Hannibal one, two, three more times and then he’s coming. Will throws his head back and shouts, mind vacating his skull for a moment. Not long after, it oozes back in and he pulls out, removing the condom and tossing it in the trash just beside the bed. He takes a minute to compose himself and, knowing Hannibal will probably need a minute (or several, he can’t speak to the efficacy of his own venom), makes his way to the bathroom to freshen up.

With a start like that, this day’s bound to be an interesting one.


	2. Fangs II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a very brief, very vague mention of childhood sexual abuse re: the "mentions of rape" tag in this chapter. It starts soon after the second infinity symbol.

Somehow, in the short time it has taken for Hannibal to freshen up, Will Graham has lost the veneer of a confident alpha male and reverted to some prickly, cautious thing. Hannibal is barely out of the bathroom door when Will thrusts a sheet of paper at him, remaining where he is–stood as far away as his outstretched arm will allow him, head turned away towards the window–until Hannibal takes the note from him.

“Today’s itinerary,” Will says, crossing the room in the time it takes to speak just two words.

Hannibal reads the note just as fast; it’s no more than a list of four locations to visit and a vague “ _lunch??_ ” in the middle. Still, the motel room door slams shut before he finishes. Will is already in his car, a rented Nissan Altima, and trying to back out of the parking spot when Hannibal literally puts himself in harm’s way. He puts both hands up in a placating gesture, comfortable with his chances of actually being run over.

Will looks as if he’s going to keep backing up for a moment, regardless of the human obstacle. He relents nearly a full minute later and rolls his window down, but Hannibal moves to the opposite end of the vehicle and climbs into the passenger seat. Before the other man can demand he get out, Hannibal explains as reasonably and level-headedly as he can despite feeling emphatically neither of those:

“Our destination is the same,” he says, holding up the _itinerary_ Will gave him, “there’s no reason to waste fuel.”

Will says nothing and continues staring blankly ahead of him. Hannibal is struck by the sudden urge to lunge forward, grab the other man by the neck, and snap it at just the right angle to correct the problem. Instead, he resigns himself to the fact that this situation is entirely his fault. He had already accepted the possibility of scaring the skittish alpha away before he had stepped out of his car that morning. Still, he can’t help but be upset at Will for leading him on, even though it was only for a short period of time.

“I can remain silent, if you’d prefer,” He offers, hoping Will accepts the veritable olive branch.

“I’d prefer,” Will says, and then they’re peeling out of the parking lot.

Will elects to head east, bypassing the highway. From what Hannibal had seen earlier, there didn’t appear to be enough traffic to warrant the scenic route they’re currently taking. He would have anticipated Will would prefer to spend less time in a cramped space with him but he’s grateful for the distraction the view outside his window provides. While the cities are the same as anywhere else in the country, the natural Minnesota is beautiful. Dense forests of silver maple and cottonwood are just familiar enough to be relaxing without dredging up unwanted memories. This holds true until he sees a pair of children play-jousting with a pair of branches, something which just about crosses that line. Lest his mind wander somewhere dark, Hannibal lets his thoughts drift back to Will.

Will Graham is a fascinating man. He's challenged nearly every standard preconception of his gender in the short time since Hannibal met him. Even for a globetrotter socialite such as himself, alphas are few and far between. The few Hannibal has had the misfortune to come across have ended up on his dinner table more often than not. He finds great satisfaction in serving their rare, ‘superior’ meat to their ‘inferior’ beta and omega colleagues.

It’s true that society has a bad habit of placing alphas on a pedestal just to better hurl stones at them, but Hannibal feels no sympathy for their plight–or he didn’t, until he met the alpha currently seated next to him and seemingly doing his best to imagine himself out of existence. It’s this thought, this realization that evaporates the remainder of Hannibal’s anger. He reminds himself that he must be patient if he wants to get closer.

If Will notices Hannibal staring at his profile for the rest of the drive, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Not a single word is spoken until they reach the first construction site.

“Ask around, see if anyone here has a daughter who looks like the victims,” Will says as he shuts the car door, ordering Hannibal around like he has any real power over him.

“I’ll check the office.”

Will leaves immediately: like he can’t tolerate being near him a second longer, and Hannibal tries not to let his irritation show on his face. Several of the individuals he needs to “ask around” are within sight, and they’re more likely to be cooperative if he keeps up a friendly facade. Unfortunately, ‘more likely’ doesn’t always mean ‘likely’, as he is quick to find out.

The machinery is loud and the men and women are at work, so it’s difficult to get their attention. Hannibal finds himself having to raise his voice to cut through the sounds of grinding and whirring. Still, the neon orange jackets on the platform above him merely lean forward and cup their hands behind their ears like they cannot hear him, though he knows they can. His hands curl into loose fists when he hears them guffawing–clearly at his expense–as soon as he’s out of sight. Those who do listen and respond to his inquiries know nothing of import. He doesn’t appreciate the way they look at him: disapproving of his very presence, like he’s imposing himself on them just to disrupt their work.

He’s passing through an area boarded off on both sides but plenty wide to accommodate at least three to four individuals across when a tall, heavyset man comes around the corner and collides right into him. Had Hannibal been a weaker man, he could very well have been knocked onto the ground–perhaps as the stranger intended.

“Whoa! Sorry–didn’t see you there,” The man apologizes a bit too late to sound organic. He grins at Hannibal before deliberately patting him on the shoulder not once but twice, leaving a large, dusty handprint on Hannibal’s otherwise pristine suit jacket. Hannibal’s gaze darts to his name tag for just a second before he beams up at him.

“My apologies,” he says, though there are none to be had, “I was distracted.”

He moves to step around Mr. Harbold, but the towering dolt mirrors his movement, effectively blocking his path. If Hannibal wasn’t already planning on visiting this man sometime in the future, he certainly is now.

“May I help you?” He asks, abandoning all his feigned amusement. He’s distantly aware of the small crowd of orange vests gathering around them.

“Funny, I was gonna ask you the same thing! Heard there was a suit knockin’ around askin’ questions and figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.”

“Of course. My partner and I are looking for a man with a teenage daughter, about–”

“You from Continental?” The man rudely interrupts, puffing out his chest and crossing his arms, “‘’Cause I thought we were clear last time. We don’t need y’all interfering no more. We’re on schedule to finish phase three by the end of the month. You got no right to goin’ around makin’ everyone uncomfortable.”

“I am unfamiliar with that organization,” Hannibal attempts to explain, “and it is not my intention to–”

Hannibal stops short, involuntarily clenching his jaw as Harbold abruptly moves into his personal space. He remains rooted to the spot, ignoring the warning bells resounding in his subconscious. He absolutely is not going to let a man with a 12:1 muscle mass to intelligence ratio intimidate him. Harbold opens his mouth, probably to spew more nonsense and thinly-veiled threats when a familiar voice rings out from nearby.

“FBI! Everyone calm down!”

Will draws Harbold’s attention and presumably that of the crowd, but Hannibal doesn’t turn to look. Something in Will’s voice commands him to be still and he doesn’t care to fight it.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d quit harassing my partner,” Will phrases it like a request but his tone is demanding.

“FBI?” Harbold looks skeptical even as Will holds up his special investigator badge. “Nobody said anything ‘bout FBI coming here.”

“Not our fault management didn’t tell you. We called three days ago,” says Will.

He comes up to stand beside Hannibal with a look that seems, strangely, to be of equal parts concern as it is irritation. His gaze darts between Hannibal and Harbold before settling on the dirty handprint on Hannibal’s shoulder. With brows furrowed, he attempts to dust it off. Hannibal remains statue-still, pleased by the unexpected contact and unwilling to disturb the moment.

“ _You_ might be FBI,” says Harbold, desperate to prove himself dumber than Hannibal’s original estimation, “but I don’t see no badge on this guy.”

Hannibal tenses, prepares to defend himself as Harbold’s arm darts out to grab his collar. Impossibly, Will is even faster. He effortlessly knocks the offending arm away–like it’s no more than a branch swaying in the wind–with a vicious snarl that startles even Hannibal.

“Oh shit,” Someone exclaims. “Those fangs?”

“Come on Greg, you don’t wanna fuck with that, man.”

“Seriously! I heard those guys get super strength when you piss ‘em off...”

“...single bite can kill ya!”

“Super strength? That’s the hulk, dumbass. Alphas are poisonous but they can’t do shit if you don’t let ‘em bite.”

“Eddy’s right. You hear him, Greg? Knock his teeth out!”

“Are you kidding me? Did you see how fast he moved?”

Despite Will being the target now, Hannibal allows him to move partially in front of him, body angled with the intent to shield him from Harbold. Under normal circumstances he would be offended by another’s attempt at protecting him. With the way Will’s been acting since they left this morning, however, it feels like progress. It’s also another side of Will he hasn’t gotten to see yet.

“So what’s the truth?” Will asks between continued, scattered shouts and demands, “You feel like finding out?”

He grins up at Harbold. Hannibal is impressed to see it’s an open-mouthed one, as his fangs are so far extended he must be unable to close his mouth without harming himself. They’re terrifyingly beautiful, thin but sinister and wickedly curved inwards. He desperately wants to feel them pierce his skin again.

Harbold has gone pale by the time he finally takes a step back, to the mixed relief and disappointment of their onlookers. He clears his throat and waves the crowd away.

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” he says, tone nonchalant despite his obvious fear, “Just get out of here. Please.”

“Yeah, nice meeting you too,” Will says, voice dripping with sarcasm. He grabs ahold of Hannibal’s arm and leads him back the way they came. They’re nearly to the front gate when Will suddenly drops his arm like he’s just found out it’s radioactive.

“Main office didn’t have anything,” he says, staring off in the direction of the forest. “They conveniently forgot we were coming. Explains the situation with the big guy.”

“I must disagree –the _big guy_ himself is enough explanation for that situation.”

The joke isn’t enough to draw Will’s eyes, but Hannibal detects a hint of mirth from his short exhale. He had feared, though perhaps only for a second, that Will was withdrawing again. Instead, it appears they’ve taken a small step forward. Hannibal climbs into the rented vehicle in a much better mood than the first time around.

∞

“Shit, need to stop for some gas,” Will announces halfway to their next stop. “They didn’t even bother to fill the tank before renting it out.”

“Poor service,” says Hannibal, frowning. “Who did you rent from? I’ll be sure to file a complaint later.”

“Leave a bad review, you mean? Formal complaints are internal only,” Will corrects him, “If you want. I don’t care enough to do it myself. Only gonna have the car for a couple days, anyways.”

“The name, then?”

“Oh, right. Fast Travel.”

Hannibal nods, though Wil’s attention is on the road. He takes a second to enter the name into the notes app on his phone. He doesn’t intend on going any further than a bad review. They’re hundreds of miles away from home and Hannibal doesn’t want to risk asking too many questions.

They pull up at a small gas station situated between a fast food restaurant and a pawn shop. The smells coming from the restaurant would be sure to tantalize any average person, but Hannibal finds no appeal in the scent of old, overcooked oil and burned potato skins. He wouldn’t consider eating at such an establishment under any circumstances apart from literal starvation. He’s willing to bet that nothing it serves is anything approaching healthy.

His attention is drawn from the restaurant to Will again when the latter curses loudly.

“Something wrong, Will?”

“Card reader’s out of order. Looks like they all are.”

“I have cash–” Hannibal begins, but he’s interrupted.

“That’s broken too. I’m going to have to–” he curses again, too quietly for Hannibal to properly hear this time. “There’s a long line inside; probably going to be a while.”

“In that case, I will take this opportunity to stretch my legs. Perhaps take a short walk.”

Hannibal gets out and stretches his arms a bit first. Will is no longer avoiding the sight of him entirely, but he still refuses to look him in the eyes. It’s a bit disappointing, given that Will had no trouble doing so even during their meeting in Jack’s office, but Hannibal doesn’t want to push him. He suspects Will won’t want to speak about what happened this morning anytime soon –especially not while they’re technically on the job. The Shrike is enough for him to worry about at the moment. Hannibal has accepted that he will need to keep a safe distance and is confident he can continue to do so as long as is needed for Will to feel comfortable.

“Don’t go too far,” Will says. He stuffs his wallet back into his pocket and half-jogs to beat an older couple to the door.

Hannibal decides to walk away from the restaurant, towards what appears to be a small metro area. There’s a park in the center of the square which is rather crowded for its size. There are dozens of people picnicking, walking their dogs, and playing games. Despite the activity, it’s relatively quiet when compared to the noise pollution of downtown Baltimore. Along one side of the sidewalk he follows is a row of parked cars –all older models, and all a bit dirty. The other side houses a smorgasbord of small businesses: everything from dessert shops and music stores to upscale boutiques.

What really catches his eye, however, is a small installation a little ways down on his left. A young girl appearing no older than eleven or twelve years old with brown skin and braided hair reaching down to her shoulders sits sketching at the canvas set up in front of her. Behind her is a wooden board with what appears to be samples of her practice and a small desk covered in various paints, pencils, and brushes. As Hannibal approaches, he can see what’s written on a bright yellow slip of paper that is also tacked to the board: _Stylized Portraits, $10 each!_

After taking a moment to look over the pieces tacked to the board, Hannibal comes to the conclusion that this girl is very talented. Perhaps even as talented as himself when he was her age. Her work is stylized, as advertised, but it highlights her talent rather than detracting from it. Her brush strokes are blocky, bold and messy, but the important areas are extremely detailed. When Hannibal comes close enough to touch, should the artist feel the need to, he leans in to better examine a bright portrait of a middle-aged blonde woman. He counts at least seven distinct colors in one of her eyes. The painting is so lifelike despite the simplicity of the less important areas that Hannibal can clearly see her on the modeling stool as if he were there at the time.

Either he loses track of time while looking over the other works on the board, or the girl finishes her sketch rather quickly. There’s a weary but proud sigh from behind him, followed closely by a startled shriek that nearly makes him flinch. After that, the loud clamor of metal paint cans and various other objects hitting the sidewalk. Hannibal turns away from the board to find that the scene behind him has become a catastrophic mess.

“How–how long have you been there, mister? Sir? I didn’t–oh no! No no no!” The girl scrambles on hands and feet to salvage what she can, but it’s not much. In her surprise, she’d knocked over nearly every can of paint, which have now poured out all over the sidewalk. The only colors to survive unscathed are the red, white, and black.

Guilt is not an emotion Hannibal is well acquainted with. While the more common ones such as anger, joy, and sorrow are like close family, guilt and regret are more like acquaintances one only remembers when coincidentally crossing paths with them in a public place. It’s not just guilt, though: watching the talented young girl desperately scoop up handfuls of paint into her small, trembling hands also triggers something like sympathy in him.

He crouches next to her, careful not to get any paint on his pant legs. He pulls out the pocket square he wears even with his more casual suits, unfolding it with one hand and taking hold of the girl’s right wrist in his other. She looks at him with confused, teary eyes but doesn’t pull away while he wipes the paint off her hand with his pocket square.

“I’m sorry,” he says by way of explanation, “I didn’t mean to frighten you; just wanted to admire your work for a bit. I forget how quiet I can be sometimes, and how easily that can scare people.”

That last part is the smallest, whitest lie he’s ever told anyone. By comparison to all the others, it doesn’t feel like a lie at all.

“You’re very talented, miss…?”

“Ayanna,” she says, moving to wipe a wayward tear away with her soiled left hand. Hannibal beats her to it, then cleans her left hand off with the dry side of the pocket square.

“That’s a lovely name,” he says. “I’m Hannibal.”

“Thank you,” she says, once both hands are more or less free of paint. There’s no possible way Hannibal could get at that which has likely dried already beneath her fingernails.

Hannibal glances between the mess spilled over the sidewalk and the three cans which remain on the desk. He looks down at the girl who’s doing her best not to cry in front of a stranger, and then he has an idea.

“Would you be willing to paint my portrait?” He asks.

“You want me to...but. I only have red!”

“Red, white, and black,” Hannibal corrects her. “You have everything you need.”

Ayanna frowns at him, sniffling. She takes a moment to just look at him, perhaps gauging the authenticity of his request.

“Okay...but it’ll look kind of scary,” she warns him.

Hannibal chuckles, amused by the genuine worry in her expression.

“Scary is fine,” he says. “It fits me.”

Ayanna clearly doesn’t miss the joke, but she doesn’t laugh, either. Her face and posture are all business as she gathers her tools together and directs Hannibal to sit. She impresses him once more when she requests he turn just so for the way the midday sunlight casts shadows across his face.

“Makes you look scarier,” she says with a tiny smile.

Hannibal lets his mind drift off a bit as he waits. He imagines himself and Ayanna trading places; only he’s her age and she’s his, and they’re not sitting on a cracked and neglected sidewalk under the Minnesotan sun but a brick road under the shade of an Italian Cyprus. He hears the calls of the sparrows and greenfinches, smells the fresh-baked tomato basil bread he loved so much from the bakery across the street, feels the warm, Mediterranean wind on his face. After this one he should have enough, he thinks, to afford a small gift for Aunt Murasaki.

“Done!”

Hannibal breaks free of his reverie at Ayanna’s announcement.

“Turned out better than I thought it would,” she says. “Here!”

She picks up the canvas from the easel and turns it around for him to see. Hannibal admits it is better than he himself had expected and she beams at him with pride and self-satisfaction. He congratulates her on a job well done, reaching for his wallet as she props up the canvas to dry more quickly.

“Thank you, Miss Ayanna.”

He holds out the entirety of what his wallet had contained: around $850, he estimates. Too much to stand there and count. Ayanna is busy preparing the canvas for purchase, but she must catch sight of the money in her periphery as she reaches out to accept it with one hand. She pauses for a few seconds when she feels the bulk of the cash in her hand, then brings it up closer to her face for examination. She stares at it for another moment, eyes wide as saucers, but says nothing.

Hannibal takes his covered portrait gently in hand and bids her a friendly farewell, to which he receives no response. He takes no offense as the girl is probably in shock. Her ragged, well-worn clothes and the fact that she seems to have no parental figure nearby lead him to believe she had never seen, let alone held so much money before.

“It was a simple request, Hannibal,” Will’s voice comes out of nowhere. “Yet you chose to ignore it.”

Not nowhere, exactly. Will is far from hidden where he leans against a large oak tree just a few steps away. Hannibal just hadn’t noticed him, distracted as he was. Despite the fact that the alpha poses no threat to him, at least for now, Hannibal is displeased with himself for allowing someone to sneak up on him like that.

“My apologies,” Hannibal takes note of the unusual amount of times he’s apologized in the past 48 hours. “I intended only to make a quick lap around the block and return. However, I frightened that young artist and–”

“I saw,” Will admits. “The aftermath, at least.”

“You were watching the whole time?” Hannibal asks, a bit unsettled despite himself.

Will shrugs.

“You looked like you were having fun. Both of you,” he specifies. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“I appreciate that,” says Hannibal. He’s surprised to feel that he genuinely means it.

They make their way back to the gas station, making good time but measured in their steps. The quiet this time is almost approaching companionable, and Hannibal finds himself curious as to why. If Will Graham were a painting, he would be an abstract work full of imagery he can pick apart and comprehend individually, but only to a certain extent, and only in pieces. The set of his mouth speaks of anger and disillusion, his wild curls of hair representative of the chaos he observes from a distance but never fully engages with. His slightly crooked nostrils, a symbol of a war he had fought and won. Hannibal had not been exaggerating when he called Will beautiful.

It isn’t until they’re both buckled into the Nissan when Will speaks again.

“Can I see?” He lifts his chin at the covered painting in Hannibal’s lap.

“Of course.”

Hannibal gently removes the protective sheet –for a child, Miss Ayanna is very professional– and reveals the portrait. Will blinks at it for a moment, and then his eyes flicker between the two-dimensional Hannibal and the real one, comparing their likeness.

“That kid did this?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“Indeed. Miss Ayanna is very talented.”

Will is quiet again while he starts the car and pulls out onto the main road. Hannibal is prepared for another silent drive, but Will surprises him yet again.

“You like kids?” he asks.

Hannibal takes a second to really think it over. Somehow, it’s not a question he’s been asked before. Wanting kids is entirely different from liking them and he’s only ever been asked about the former.

“I don’t dislike them,” he decides. “I suppose one could say I’m ambivalent.”

“Oh,” Will says. “I’m the same, I guess. Or I was.”

“Was?”

Will clears his throat uncomfortably.

“I guess I mean to say that I don’t mind them as much as I used to. That Ayanna seemed alright,” he says, navigating to what appears to be a more comfortable subject.

“She reminds me a bit of myself, when I was younger,” Hannibal admits.

“How so?” There’s a trace of doubt in Will’s tone, but Hannibal ignores it.

“I’ve loved art ever since I was a small boy. It has remained one of my greatest passions, along with music and food. But it’s the street art that’s so familiar.”

“You did that?”

“Yes,” Hannibal answers. “I was a bit older–in my late teens, actually–but there was a time when nearly all of my income came from painting strangers in the plaza. Florence is where I had the privilege of becoming a man.”

“I didn’t peg you for an Italian,” Will says, crossing into the left turning lane without a signal. It’s not such a horrible thing, considering they’re the only ones currently out on this particular road, but Hannibal has to fight the need to admonish him for it regardless.

“I am not Italian. I have lived in half a dozen countries, all of them European save for this one, but I am originally from Lithuania.”

“That’s...close to Ukraine, right?”

Hannibal chuckles. It’s not a bad try, especially for an American. A good sixty to seventy-five percent of those he’s spoken the name to have either never heard of it or outright lied about recognizing it, or even having been there.

“It’s not far,” he says, “But it’s much closer to Poland and Belarus.”

“Ah. Why’d you move?”

“My uncle adopted me. He lived with his wife in France, which is where I moved originally.”

“Problems with the parents?”

“They were murdered,” Hannibal says matter-of-factly. “Along with my younger sister.”

The atmosphere grows heavy almost immediately, and Hannibal is worried for a brief moment that he’s killed the conversation by being too honest. He’s not normally like this; especially not with someone he’s known for so short a time. Something about this strange, lovely alpha makes him want to lay everything bare. It’s thanks to his honed survival instincts that he is able to resist this urge.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his arm. It squeezes once in what Hannibal assumes is meant to be a conciliatory gesture. It then disappears as quickly as it appeared.

“My dad was a heavy drinker,” Will offers without prompt. “He didn’t beat me but he wasn’t exactly loving. I thought maybe he could be, when I presented on my thirteenth birthday. He didn’t say as much, but I knew he wanted an alpha son. I thought just my being an alpha would be enough, but I was wrong. I was too ‘weak,’ he thought. Reading and fishing weren’t ‘macho’ enough. Alphas should play sports. Alphas should crush their prey with their bare hands, and should have as many concurrent sexual partners as possible. He was also of the opinion that alphas should rise up, take control, fight for their rightful place in the world, et cetera.”

“Was he involved with Birthright?”

“If by ‘involved’ you mean a member, no. He agreed with their ideology, but so far as I know he never actually approached them. I think he would have, if I had showed any interest –he wanted someone who’d have his back, I think– but I didn’t want any part of that.”

“Tell me, Will. What, specifically, was it about the organization that kept you away?”

His psychiatrist tone must be coming through a bit too strongly, as Will’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“That’s really something you have to ask?” His mouth is set and his shoulders are rigid. Hannibal would regret putting him on edge if he were not so very tempted to see through this particular window into the alpha’s psyche.

“Was it the authoritarianism? The individuals involved? The ideology itself?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Will says through clenched teeth.

“I’ll answer for you, then. It was none of those things I just mentioned. You were afraid if you joined, you’d become something terrible. Maybe you would end up becoming the son your father wanted: the one you didn’t want to be. Maybe you’d prove yourself no better than an animal, like the one beta society thinks you are.”

Will abruptly pulls over into what appears to be an old, abandoned convenience store parking lot, but Hannibal continues undeterred.

“Perhaps even Birthright couldn’t handle the kind of monster you could be.”

Will aggressively slams the gear shift into park, turning the car off and opening and slamming his car door in a similar manner. Hannibal imagines, for a split second, Will marching up to his side and literally dragging him out of the car, but Will keeps walking. He stops a short ways away and leans against a decrepit brick wall with his arms crossed, waiting.

They make eye contact, and Will doesn’t seem bothered when it holds for over two minutes. Hannibal knows this is some sort of challenge, but he’s not sure what’s expected of him. Is he meant to simply wait it out? Does Will want a fight? He sincerely hopes not –Will has shown promise in that area, but Hannibal is more concerned about getting carried away himself and doing enough damage to drive the other man away, perhaps permanently. He can feel his muscles tightening and his heart rate picking up speed just in response to the acrid smell of angry alpha which still permeates the car.

When another minute passes without either of them looking away, Hannibal reluctantly climbs out of the car. Even if he was meant to wait, which he doubts, they still have a Shrike to catch. He walks slowly but confidently towards the alpha, tiny sparks under his skin going off from the top of his neck down to the base of his spine. As he grows closer, Will’s scent grows stronger, and his jaw begins to ache as he fights his body’s fight-or-flight response. It can’t be more than a few seconds before he reaches him, but it feels like a lifetime. He stops just a foot in front of Will, wracking his brain for something that isn’t quite an apology, as he is not sorry, but that will placate him and put an end to this tense standoff.

Before he can find the proper words, Will lunges forward. He grabs Hannibal by the throat with one hand, shoving him back against the wall with enough force to knock the air out of him. When Hannibal raises both of his own hands up in an uncoordinated attempt to protect himself, Will uses his free hand to pin them above his head. It’s not so tight a hold that Hannibal couldn’t easily break it if he wanted, but he has the slowly tightening pressure around his windpipe to contend with as well.

“Who do you think you are?” WIll growls.

His eyes are dotted with flecks of blood and his needle-like fangs are jutting out in front of his normal incisors. What a feat of evolutionary engineering they are: hidden at all times when they aren’t needed, taking up no additional space needed by the chewing, grinding and tearing teeth, yet quick to slide out from their secret sheath when they are needed for fighting or mating. They’re so dangerously alluring that Hannibal finds he doesn’t much mind the context in which he’s finally getting to see them up close.

“You think you understand me,” Will continues, letting up on Hannibal’s throat a bit, “But you don’t. You can’t. You’ll never understand what it’s like–”

Will lets go of Hannibal’s hands, which immediately go to the hand tightening around his throat again. The alpha pulls him forward until their chests brush, then slams him back into the wall even harder than before. Hannibal groans as the back of his head hits brick, all thoughts of beauty and evolution knocked out of him. A quick glance confirms his suspicion: Will is teetering on the edge, moments away from going full red. His fangs are dripping slowly, and as much as Hannibal had wanted them buried in his throat earlier, now would be the worst possible time for that to happen. He needs to think of something quickly before Will completely loses control.

“You don’t know what it’s like–” Will repeats, though his words are a bit slurred, his speech impeded by the length of his fangs. “–to have done nothing wrong and still get treated like a walking time bomb! Like my existence is a crime waiting to happen! Like I’m a sex-crazed _beast_ and nothing I ever feel is justified by anything but my genes!”

Will is working himself into a rage, and Hannibal can’t find an opportunity. He’s made the mistake of not taking the alpha seriously from the beginning, and now he’s been backed into a corner. He’s beginning to feel light-headed from the pressure around his throat and Will isn’t showing any signs of letting up soon. He has no choice but to take a serious gamble.

He allows his own fangs to shoot out of his gums the way they’ve been trying to since he left the car. Will’s eyes widen, their normal blues shining through clouds of angry red. Hannibal can only hope his own eyes haven’t betrayed him. Will lets go of Hannibal’s throat entirely when the latter growls at him, taking half a surprised step backwards. Hannibal takes another gamble by reversing their positions–only he grabs Will by the collar, lifts him up until his toes just barely leave the ground in a perhaps unnecessary show of strength.

“I may not know you well–not yet–but I do understand you, Will. I only grow more certain of this fact the longer I remain in your presence,” he says. Will swallows heavily, gaze flickering downwards to where Hannibal holds him up by his shirt and back. “The only reason you think I cannot understand you is because you do not fully understand yourself. Because you are afraid of yourself, Will, and you’re afraid that others will fear you, too. You’re afraid you’ll let them too close; close enough to really hurt you, and they’ll recoil, taking a piece of you with them.”

Hannibal gently releases him, taking a second to straighten his collar.

“I am not like all the others, Will. I do not recoil.” His gaze travels back up to Will’s face. There are at least four distinct emotions warring upon it, but consternation and anxiety appear to be winning. Hannibal presses a hand to his cheek, slowly runs his thumb over his upper lip when Will doesn’t flinch away or make any attempt to leave. “I want no piece of you if I cannot have the whole of you.”

It should sound strange, even to his ears. He’s known this man for no longer than fifty waking hours, and yet the words ring true. The Will from mere moments ago who had been prepared to strangle the life out of him is just as desirable as the one who half-heartedly attempted to comfort him over something that happened decades ago. The Will who ignored him for an hour because he was embarrassed about a sexual encounter Hannibal started was just as desirable as the Will who enthusiastically participated in said encounter.

“How can you say something like that so easily?” Will demands, though there’s no trace of anger left in his voice. “I don’t understand. Like you said, you don’t know me.”

Hannibal intends to defend his statement, but Will isn’t finished.

“You...you’re an alpha.”

Will pauses, like he’s looking for an affirmation, or perhaps a denial. Hannibal gives him neither, hoping his non-answer will track as the former in Will’s eyes. His luck must be running strong today, as Will does just as he hopes.

“We’re both alphas, so. Why did you…” Will is flushed with embarrassment now. “Why did you let me do that to you? No, nevermind, disregard that. That’s a shitty thing to say, sorry. I just...I’ve never thought about that sort of thing before.”

“Homogeneous homosexual relationships, you mean?”

“...There’s got to be a better term than that,” Will says, expression serious despite the heat warming Hannibal’s palm where it remains against his cheek. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you so…”

Will squeezes his eyes shut. Still, he doesn’t appear to mind the placement of Hannibal’s hand, even as it moves back into his hair, gently combing.

“I just don’t understand,” Will whispers. “I don’t understand why you wanted me in the first place, let alone how you can still want me, even after–” he gestures vaguely between and around the two of them, “–after seeing me like this. I’m only a stereotypical alpha at the worst times and in the worst of ways.”

"I’m not upset with you, Will, and gender stereotypes mean nothing to me. Beta society attempts to keep us in neatly labeled packages because they cannot accept a world in which we are free to do as we like. This world thrives because of our participation in it. If we’re never forced to fit in with the beta population, what is there to stop us from creating our own world, just for us?"

"I may actually join Birthright if that's their pitch," Will says with a wry smile.

Hannibal smiles as well. Feeling bold, he pulls Will into a loose embrace, dipping his head to nose at his neck. Will's scent is just as appealing as the rest of him when he's relaxed. Will tentatively returns the embrace, and they remain standing quietly in each other's arms as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“You’re a strange psychiatrist,” Will says after a moment.

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Will laughs. “Well it wasn’t an insult, so do with it what you will. We should really be getting back to the car, though, if we want to finish things up today.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to spending another day with you,” Hannibal admits.

“...I guess I wouldn’t either. Be opposed, I mean, but Jack certainly would be. Come on, let’s get back to work.”

∞

Being an omega is far from easy.

Being a male omega complicates things even further –especially for one who presents nearly five years too early, as Hannibal did. His working theory is that the stress of his parents’ death and the added burden of suddenly becoming Mischa’s only caretaker triggered an early puberty of sorts. He could never really understand other children his age and certainly never got along with them. He was too quiet, too intelligent, and so he was labelled ‘other’ and treated as such. His mother’s favorite maid –an omega herself– believed it was because he was mature for his age. He was simply growing into adulthood more quickly than his peers.

“It isn’t a bad thing,” she told him as she helped him into his school uniform the morning before she was let go, due to the household’s lack of funds, “it just means you’ll be more prepared for whatever hardships life throws at you.”

The newly-presented omega Hannibal would have steadfastly disagreed with that statement. He was far from prepared for the agony his first heat brought or the terror and helplessness it inspired in his poor sister who was too young to understand what was happening to him. Even the current Hannibal doesn’t think anything could have prepared him for the unexpected arrival of three strange alpha men, or for the revolting things he and Mischa had to endure underneath them. Like with Hannibal’s heat, Mischa was still too young to fully comprehend the situation. She just wanted the pain to stop. Eventually, it did: abruptly and without Hannibal’s knowledge, until he found one of her silver-capped teeth in his stew.

It was these sorts of memories which compelled Hannibal to start blockers as soon as possible, despite their negative side effects. He found the occasional vomiting and migraines, along with an increased chance of infertility preferable to the possibility of having to go through something like that nightmare again. That aside, it was easier to concentrate on his hobbies when he didn’t have to worry about the lecherous stares and repulsive comments on his scent or his body. He could tolerate the assumptions and misguided opinions of betas and the occasional alpha, as they increased his anticipation for the coming feast, but he couldn’t simply kill every person who ever looked at him and saw only his gender.

These days, when he encounters a truly awful individual, he sometimes drops his medication and lets his hormones return to normal, so he can watch his victim’s face when they realize the predator in the room is one they would normally consider prey. He finds great amusement in the way they try to appeal to his omega nature. Some of them change their tone, speak more softly, and tell him he doesn’t really want to do this. Others, usually alphas, become angry and try to intimidate him into letting them go. Other omegas, though they rarely end up on his table, sometimes try to befriend him. He can’t prove this, but he thinks that deep down these omegas are genuinely envious he’s escaped the chains society uses to bind them all into a submissive role when they present. After all, an omega who’s free to kill is an omega who’s free to live life any way he wants, an omega who’s free to pursue his hobbies instead of remaining locked indoors all day, being shown off like a prized possession, or treated like breeding stock.

Some great progress has been made, especially in the west, when it comes to omega’s rights, but they are still trafficked more than any other group. They are still barred from working what are considered “dangerous” jobs that everyone else has access to. They are still subject to arranged marriages at early ages and they are still treated more like children than adults until they reach thirty years of age.

Hannibal sees no reason nor any benefit to coming out, not even to someone like Will. He may be unlike any alpha Hannibal has ever known, but he is still an alpha. Though extreme, most of today’s remaining prejudice towards secondary genders is at least somewhat based on fact. Though Hannibal is physically stronger, Will could easily force him to submit if he let his guard down for even a second. Located just a few centimeters under the skin of his nape is his scent gland, named so because it is the source of his omega pheromones. It is extremely sensitive; both to physical touch and, unfortunately, venom. If an omega’s scent gland is injected with alpha venom, whether through a bite or by any other means, their body goes through a powerful series of changes.

The first to occur is perhaps the least impressive one: a sharp increase in fertility; easily achieved through less invasive means. Then comes the weight gain; which modern science has yet to explain, though the most popular theory suggests this is to ensure the omega can go for longer periods without eating, which leaves more time for breeding. There’s a drastic change in mood, then. The omega becomes calmer, more affectionate and easy to please–no one questions the reason for this. The strangest change of all, however, is the apparent creation of some sort of mental and emotional link between the alpha and omega. Scientists and psychologists have studied this link for centuries but cannot explain its creation nor how it works. According to the testimonies of bonded individuals, as they’re called, they obtain the ability to sense their mates’ moods and thoughts even from a distance. When tested, it was revealed that bonded pairs did indeed guess emotions and simple thoughts correctly anywhere from sixty to eighty percent of the time while in separate buildings.

Before now, Hannibal had always found this disturbing. The idea that someone could truly know him, could peer through the veil and see the real shape of him, was not comforting. It was something he wished to avoid more than anything. He didn’t mind the quiet of his Baltimore home or the sickness the blockers continued to cause him whenever they prevented his heats. He wasn’t lonely; the countless acquaintances he made over the years provided more than enough company and entertainment.

Until Will.

There must be something wrong with him, Hannibal ponders as the very man of his interest–affection–obsession–whatever it is, makes quick work of the uncharacteristically yet strategically simple tuna sandwiches Hannibal made for their lunch. He’s not making a mess, not exactly, but he eats like he absolutely would be if Hannibal weren’t watching him so closely. It’s unfair how endearing the alpha can be without trying. Or perhaps it’s just too easy for Hannibal to find him so. He makes a mental note to visit his doctor when they return home, just in case what he feels in Will’s presence can be explained by failing blockers or a developed immunity to his medication.

“If this is what your food tastes like when you aren’t really trying,” Will pauses to reach for a napkin to wipe his face with, “I can’t imagine how good it must be when you _are_ trying.”

“You need not imagine,” says Hannibal, unable and unwilling to stop a fond smile from spreading across his face, “Friends are always welcome at my table.”

Will clears his throat like he means to speak, but he reaches for his coffee instead, taking a drink to allow himself more time to think over his response. Hannibal made sure this coffee was not from the same batch as that from this morning. As much as he loves the thought of the alpha unknowingly consuming his venom, it wouldn’t do for Will to be so...distracted, while they continue their hunt for the Shrike.

“Is that, uh. Is that what we are? Friends?” Will asks, gently replacing his mug on the table.

“At the very least, I should hope.”

They resume eating and Hannibal doesn’t let Will’s lack of response get to him. The man likes to take his time, struggles finding the courage to complete his sentences sometimes, and he doesn’t always mean what he says when he finally does. Hannibal can understand that, so he doesn’t pressure him. Sure enough, Will formulates a response by the time he finishes his sandwich.

“At the very most, then?”

Hannibal is still chewing his last bite, but he can’t let such a momentous question go without an answer. He reaches across the unsteady picnic table at which they’re seated for Will’s hand, heart swelling until he’s certain it will burst.

“I’m not one for labels,” he says, turning Will’s hand over and planting a soft kiss on his palm, then the underside of his wrist. “Just know that I would gladly do anything you asked of me.”

Will’s inhalation is not quite a gasp, but it’s plainly audible.

“Anything?” He asks, softly, like Hannibal will change his mind if he's too loud.

“I would kill for you.”

It's perhaps the most honest he's ever been.

“You shouldn’t say such things to an officer of the law, especially if they’re true," Will admonishes him, but he's wearing a small smile.

“You should be careful what you wish for, then.”

“Seriously, you shouldn’t joke about things like this," Will's smile is now a frown. "If you had seen the things I have…”

“Alright, I’ll stop. I don’t want to upset you, lest your turn into the Hulk.”

Will laughs like he did this morning, when Hannibal told him how Jack saw him. He laughs until there's tears in the corners of his eyes, and Hannibal thinks more on how _he_ sees him.

Will is beautiful, in a quiet, calm sort of way. Like a spring hidden deep within the forest, waiting for those with the patience and determination to discover it. Like a spring with a deadly secret– a blue hole tempting visitors into its gaping maw with the promise of tranquility, only for the powerful current just below the surface to drag them to an untimely death.

Hannibal has always been fond of swimming, but he is also fond of life. He is cautious. He had originally meant only to stand on the shore, perhaps dip his feet in, but then he had read the files on Baltimore's Robin Hood. Jack had brought him on to watch Will immediately after the case concluded. While he was pleased with Will's performance, he was concerned about his state of mind and the rumors circulating about his atypical way of bringing in their top suspect. He wanted will on a tight leash and didn't entirely trust that he could contain an unhinged alpha on his own, if it came to that. Hannibal had accepted that responsibility, though he had also admitted it would be a first for him.

He had not expected the man who had shaken his hand that day. He had not expected the one who bristled like an angry kitten; aggravated and rearing to fight but inspiring only adoration in its perceived opponent. He had expected even less the man in the file who had chosen to hunt down a suspect like a starving wildcat instead of going through the proper legal channels. A lynx perhaps, something commonly underestimated because of the senseless yet common comparison between itself and much larger cats.

He wonders briefly how Will would react if he knew what he was thinking, if he knew Hannibal saw him not only as a mongoose but a domesticated kitten, a lynx, and a blue hole as well. He can’t help but imagine the look on his face –the way his brows would crease in irritation and bewilderment. Perhaps he would find it funny and Hannibal would get to see even more of that disarming smile.

“You’re zoning out again.”

Hannibal nearly apologizes again, but he remembers what he said to Will this morning and stops himself just in time.

“I was merely admiring your beauty,” he says instead.

Hannibal is disappointed when Will pulls his hand back, but the feeling fades as soon as he realizes that Will meant only to lace their fingers together.

“You don’t need to constantly stroke my ego, you know,” his voice is soft and as warm as his hand.

“There are many things I’d like to stroke, Will, but your ego isn’t one I’ve considered.”

“Christ. Okay,” Will does let go of his hand then, gathering their trash from the table and depositing it in the nearly overflowing trash bin nearby. “We should, uh. We should really get back to work.”

He’s staring down at his shoes, but Hannibal no longer finds the loss of his attention irritating. It’s enough to know that he’s the reason why the alpha’s face is scarlet.

“Alright, then. Let’s head out.”

∞

Will pulls right up to the office this time –a trailer, as this site is clearly not a permanent one. Hannibal is immensely grateful for this, as it appears to have been raining on this side of town. There’s mud everywhere and he would prefer not to have to clean it off the soles of his shoes later.

“Can I help you?” A middle-aged, brown-haired woman asks as soon as they’re in the door.

“FBI,” Will says. “We found a piece of metal from a pipe threader on the body of a teenage girl recently, identified it as coming from a Minneapolis construction site.”

“Jesus Christ. You think it was somebody here?”

Hannibal wanders as much as he can throughout the small trailer while Will makes a valiant attempt at placating the woman–Lisa, it seems, according to the nameplate on her desk. It’s not long before Will joins him at the filing cabinet. They operate mostly in companionable silence, only speaking when Lisa asks them something. At one point, Hannibal reaches for Will’s hand, unconcerned about the additional person in the room. Will shoots him a look but doesn’t pull away. He does, however, inform Hannibal that he’s going to have to turn the page for him if he insists on being a nuisance.

“You have an address for a Garrett Jacob Hobbs?” Will asks when they’ve gone through the entire list of employees.

“I don’t know anything that’s not in that file,” says Lisa. “Why?”

“It’s just that he’s the only one without an address. Say, does Hobbs have a teenage daughter? Seventeen, eighteen years old? About this tall, with brown hair and blue eyes?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I don’t keep company with these people.”

Lisa returns to her phone call, about as helpful in this situation as a brick wall would be.

“You think this could be our guy?” Hannibal asks, though he knows the answer.

“I don’t know. It’s worth looking into.”

As they begin moving boxes of files out to the car, much to Lisa’s vexation, Hannibal remembers why the name sounds vaguely familiar.

It was at the football game–he didn’t care to know which teams were playing, as mainstream sports aren’t something he’s interested in–where he found Cassie Boyle. He had been listening in on the girl’s conversation with her friends for some time before she had asked him rather rudely for a cigarette. He had heard the name “Abigail Hobbs” come from either her mouth or those of her friends at least three or four times. Apparently, she went to Cassie’s school.

Hannibal is now certain this Garrett Jacob Hobbs is the Minnesota Shrike.

The question is: what should he do with this information? The polite thing to do is, quite frankly, not possible for him. There’s no convincing excuse he could come up with for why he has this information. He could do nothing, let the investigation proceed as it would had he not stumbled upon this realization, but it’s not often he’s presented with such an incredible opportunity to influence such a high-stakes chain of events. He’s curious what will happen if Hobbs knows they’re coming. He’s even more curious what will happen if Will catches him red-handed.

As he’s carrying out a particularly heavy box, Hannibal lets the upside-down lid, which is covered in countless sheets of paper, slide out of his hands and through the metal guide rails.

“I’ve got it,” Will says, bending over to grab as many sheets as he can fit in both hands. Hannibal wastes no time, as he knows that despite her prickly nature, Lisa will feel compelled to help him clean up. He moves back inside and makes his way over to the phone on her desk, reaching for a tissue with which to hold the receiver and dialing the number he memorized from Hobbs’ file with his knuckles.

“Hello?” A young woman, presumably the daughter, is the one who answers.

“Hello. Could you put your father on the line, please?”

“Sure,” she says. “Hey dad! Someone’s calling for you.”

She trades places with the Minnesota Shrike just a couple seconds later.

“Hello? Who is this?” he asks.

“Hello, Garrett. We’ve never met, and I suspect we never will,” Hannibal pauses for emphasis. “I have a very important message for you. Are you listening?”

“...Yes.”

“They know.”

With that, Hannibal hangs up. He crumples up the tissue in his hand before throwing it in the small trash can under the desk. He fills another box with files and carries it out, overly careful with his steps like he’s afraid of making a mess again.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

It’s entirely unnecessary, but Hannibal finds he appreciates the sentiment regardless, saying as much out loud. Will says it’s not a problem, that he would prefer to speed up the process a bit. He makes a point to compliment the strength Hannibal showed earlier, like he’s afraid he’s somehow offended him by offering his help.

“I called Jack,” Will says without prompting once they’ve got everything they need. “He gave me the ‘OK’ to question Hobbs at this address.”

Will hands him a torn slip of paper.

“I’ll drive this time,” Hannibal offers.

∞

It’s the most excited he’s been in ages.

Peeking behind the curtain which hangs between the FBI and the general public alone would have been the highlight of his time in the States. Even before taking into account the fascinating alpha he had the pleasure to know, and everything that had followed and led up to the climactic finish at the Hobbs home.

The mother: splayed out on the front porch and drowned in her own blood; a mere preview of the bloodbath within. The father: slumped against the kitchen cabinets in the corner, his body riddled with far more bullet holes than was strictly necessary to end his reign of terror. The daughter: a loving imitation of her mother, kept alive only by the unsteady hand on her throat. And finally, the owner of that hand: Will Graham himself, drenched in blood spatter and trembling like a leaf as he fumbles to keep the daughter’s neck wound closed.

It's like a living, breathing painting; one Hannibal intends on preserving in the foyer of his mind palace for years to come.

The Hobbs’ family story could have ended here– _would_ have ended here, if Hannibal was not so enthralled by the metaphysical transference of fatherly love from Garrett Jacob Hobbs to Will Graham. He wonders, distantly, if it could be transferred then from Will to himself, if he could love the girl with the cannibal father whose overwhelming devotion has left her bleeding and broken on their kitchen floor. It is this curiosity which spurs him into action, replacing Will’s hands with his own and elevating the girl’s neck until the ambulance arrives.

He rides with her to the hospital. Once her surgery is complete, he waits with her in her private room while Will is engaged with official FBI matters. Whoever Abigail Hobbs was before that phone call is gone, and Hannibal finds himself anticipating her replacement.

Will she withdraw from the world? Will she hide in shadows so dark even the press cannot find her? Or will she face the consequences of her blood with her head held high? Will she be looking to replace that which she has lost, or will she insist on moving through life alone?

Hannibal falls asleep at some point, despite his best attempt not to. He's still holding Abigail's hand-not sure when he'd reached for it in the first place-when Will nudges him awake.

"Jack wants her moved to Johns Hopkins, now that she's stable," he says quietly.

"Easier to reach for questioning," says Hannibal just as quietly.

"I wish he would just let her rest when she wakes up. Her father's dead. Her mother, too. There won't be any more bodies. He'll have plenty of time to waste hers when she's better."

"I wholeheartedly agree. However, we both know Jack Crawford isn't the patient type."

Will moves to the other side of the bed and picks up the second chair, depositing it to the right of Hannibal's. He sits with an exasperated sigh, looping his arm around Hannibal's.

"I want to protect her," he whispers.

"As do I."

"Do you think she'll let us?"

Hannibal leans towards him, reaching up and tucking a few stray locks of hair behind Will's ear.

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."

∞

They return home separately. Hannibal receives a call from Jack Crawford nearly as soon as his feet touch Maryland soil. He's concerned about Will again; concerned that Will may be unfit for the job after his confrontation with Garrett Jacob Hobbs, more specifically. Hannibal agrees to a one-time evaluation, fully aware that it won't be happening just once.

Once his conversation with Jack ends, Hannibal sets up an emergency appointment with Dr. Manning. He feels fine physically, but something deep inside him has changed. He felt it first during that brief conversation in Jack Crawford's office. It was like shifting tectonic plates; nearly unnoticeable on the surface but huge and momentous below. The very shape of his world has been altered, and yet there's no visible proof on the outside.

The time he's spent with Will Graham has only made him more aware of this change. Hannibal knew what he was doing when he added a few tablespoons of his own venom to his original coffee recipe. He certainly didn't regret the resulting sex, but he wasn’t wholly satisfied either. He was well versed in the effects of alpha venom, but reading about them versus actually experiencing them were two different matters entirely. He did not anticipate it taking hold so quickly, did not expect rational thought to leave him so rapidly.

As much as he enjoyed seeing Will take charge and make good use of his biology, he would have liked to have been in a state of mind that would have allowed him to really appreciate the moment. To really appreciate this strange, lovely alpha who had so thoroughly dominated his thoughts and his body. It's comforting to know that Will has more or less agreed to a relationship. It means he should have plenty of time to better familiarize himself with all parts of him.

It’s dangerous allowing himself to feel this way. The smart thing to do, he knows, would be to cut off all contact with Will Graham. It’s unfortunate that Hannibal loves danger and, apparently, ignoring his own advice.

When he reaches Dr. Manning’s office, he assures her that there is no emergency that he’s aware of. He is simply there to be proactive and get some tests done just in case something is wrong. He's not sure what treatment would look like if there truly is something amiss, but he hopes it won't completely erase the way he feels about Will. He only wants his feelings towards the alpha to be something he can manage; something he can shut off if things get too dangerous for him. If Will gets too dangerous for him.

"I'm not seeing anything wrong," says the doctor after all the tests are complete.

"You're certain?"

"Yes, everything appears normal. It's all the same as your last checkup. May I ask why you felt the need to see me so late in the evening?"

He’s reluctant at first, but he reminds himself that Dr. Manning is loyal and secretive like he pays her to be, and that any information he gives her is useless for anything but a diagnosis.

Manning smiles at him once he’s done explaining everything in the simplest terms he can manage. It's not pitying, not exactly, but it's close enough that it irritates him.

"Sounds like you've got a crush," she says. "Not a cause for concern. If it's really that strong, it could even be something more to do with him than you. Or her."

He bristles at the use of the term "crush," like he's some prepubescent schoolchild. He must admit there’s validity to her statement, though. If Hannibal could love anyone, it would be someone like Will. He’s simultaneously relieved and uncomfortable with this realization.

There’s a few minutes of back-and-forth between them: Dr. Manning asks inane questions in some misguided attempt to console Hannibal while he gives vague one or two-word replies until she finally gets the message. It takes longer than he would like before she bills his insurance and sends him on his way. He thinks over their conversation intermittently on his drive home, his thoughts raising questions he wishes someone else could answer for him.

The most important one being: what should he do about this infatuation?

He's managed being on his own for so long he doesn't remember what it's like to have someone close. He doesn't know if it's safe to bring Will closer, what with him being so closely associated with the FBI - quite the large disadvantage, though it could also be an advantage, if he played his cards right. He considers himself a veteran at this sort of card game but there’s always a chance something could go wrong; in this case, horribly.

And then there’s Abigail.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs has done him a momentous favor. Abigail may be just what he needs to tie Will and himself together. A surrogate daughter acting as the glue between them. He sees a bit of himself in the girl, and he must admit she has potential. Perhaps not the same potential he’s caught a glimpse of in Will, but potential nonetheless. She needs a new father figure; he’ll give her two.

He’s only a few blocks from home when a call comes through. He presses the button on his steering wheel to answer, and Will’s voice comes through his car’s speakers.

“She’s awake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually cannot believe that it took me over 20k words just to get through the events of Aperitif, and that I made the guys bang and start dating within that timeframe. This is not what I intended at all when I started writing this but I am totally here for it


	3. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this 13,000+ word meal I'm delivering when I should've been asleep 2 hours ago.
> 
> Also, there's more {oral}sex in this one and it's just about the filthiest stuff I've ever written. My mother would weep if she read even a single sentence. Have fun lmao

Will has just dismissed his last class of the day when he spots a familiar and rather unexpected face hovering near the door.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says.

“Almost a year,” Alana says as she approaches. “I just happened to be nearby; thought I’d stop in and say hello at least.”

“Nearby as in…?”

“I scored a new office just on the outskirts of Quantico. It’s right next to the Panera on the corner,” she explains.

“Well congratulations. I know how much you hated the old one in D.C.”

It’s a convenient excuse and clearly one she’s thought out. Alana Bloom, as long as he’s known her, has never once put herself in a room alone with him. He’s not sure what the exact ratio is, but he knows the reason is partly because of the weird crush he once had on her, and partly because he’s an interesting specimen she’d like to pick apart. It’s just how psychiatrists are–Hannibal is an extreme outlier in the way he handles this sort of thing.

Sure enough, Alana’s excuse is exposed as such in just a few words:

“I’ve heard about Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

Not the Minnesota Shrike, ‘the case’, or even ‘what happened.’ At least she’s getting straight to the point. Will hates wasting time he could be spending on getting home if it isn’t absolutely necessary.

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone around here hasn’t heard,” Will says. “Class gave me a standing ovation my first day back. Again. It was just as inappropriate as the first time.”

“I agree, but they didn’t mean any harm by it. They all want a chance at being ‘the hero.’ Of course they’re going to applaud a teacher who single-handedly takes down a prolific serial killer like that. Plus you saved a girl in the process.”

And there it is, the real reason she stopped by: Abigail. Perhaps he and Hannibal weren’t being as careful about it as they thought they were…

“I hear you and Hannibal have been visiting her pretty often,” she says. She pauses for a moment, perhaps to give Will time to refute her, like there’s something inherently wrong with her statement being true. Though he’s sure it’s coming from some misguided attempt to help all of them, Will finds this _tremendously_ irritating.

“And you don’t think we should be,” he sighs, adjusting his glasses.

“I understand, Will. I do,” Alana says, heels clicking against the floor as she steps closer. “Abigail is lost. She’s alone in the world. It’s hard not to step in and bring someone like her into your own.”

“But that’s not my job,” Will says for her. “In her own words: ‘just because you killed my dad doesn’t mean you get to be him.’ I’m not trying to replace her father, so if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t be. It’s like you said: she’s alone. I’m trying to make her less so.”

“Abigail does need new relationships; I’m not denying that. What she also needs, however, is to distance herself from everything related to her trauma. She’ll never be ready to move on if she’s constantly interacting with the man who killed her father.”

“Hannibal disagrees,” he says. It’s really the only defense he has for such a solid argument, besides _‘I don’t like it, and therefore you’re wrong!’_

“That also has me worried. Hannibal has never been so... _involved_ , before. He could be damaged by that incident as well. In all probability, you all are.”

“Just think of it as group therapy, then.” Will says, shoving the remainder of his teaching materials into his briefcase. “Nice talking with you again.”

Alana looks like she has much more to say, but she watches quietly as he exits the room. Will doesn’t want to be so standoffish with someone heusually enjoys being around, but this type of behavior is par for the course these days.

He’s going to have to be more careful, he thinks, as he climbs into his car. He and Hannibal both. Hannibal’s already rubber stamped him; let him go back into the field without a proper evaluation. He didn’t even ask any questions beforehand, just a pat on the back and a _‘Well you seem quite alright to me.’_ If Alana or really anyone gets close enough to find out about this or, even worse, about their relationship, they could both be in serious trouble.

It’s easier said than done, though: hiding in plain sight. Since the evaluation that never happened, Hannibal has essentially been assigned as Will’s handler. He accompanies him to every crime scene when possible. Anytime Will is out in public under the jurisdiction of the FBI, Hannibal is with him. To his credit, Hannibal does an excellent job of pissing Will off from time to time with invasive questions and unwanted input, which in turn does a pretty good job of making it seem like Will hates him. Or at least that’s how Will hopes it looks.

Despite the genuinely negative emotions Hannibal inspires in him, he inspires some pretty positive ones too. Will hates being treated like a dog on a leash, but there is some comfort to be found in the fact that the one holding the leash is also considered a dog by society’s standards. Hannibal’s presence, when he isn’t saying things Will would rather not hear, is both reassuring and stimulating to the point that Will barely notices the pull of the leash. Despite the power he undoubtedly holds over Will, Hannibal isn’t overbearing and doesn’t even really try to rein Will in at all. More often than not, he just stands by and observes, offering Will counsel when he needs it. It’s an effective approach he also uses in their not-therapy sessions.

There is one serious drawback to Hannibal’s presence, though, and it isn’t even his fault. If there were a term for the specifically alpha version of fragile masculinity, Will would normally be just about as far away from it as possible. He has no clue why, but being out with Hannibal in public draws out this bizarre urge to ‘over-alpha’ himself. He’s snappier, louder, and generally less agreeable. People avoid him even more than they used to, which in itself isn’t a bad thing, but it’s still worrisome. If anyone were to ask him what happened, he’s not sure how to answer. He doesn’t know what’s happening or why. He just knows that something’s off and that his psychiatrist partner both assuages and exacerbates it simultaneously.

He’s talked to Hannibal about it of course. While the man may seem like the cure-all of psychiatry, he hasn’t had much to offer in regards to these...mood changes? Will isn’t even sure what to call them and Hannibal only says things like:

_“It’s no real cause for concern. You’re perfectly fine.”_

_“So what if you make others uncomfortable? You don’t seem bothered by their discomfort in itself, so why should you worry that they are?”_

_“You’re merely adjusting to various, significant life changes such as the inclusion of myself and Abigail into your social circle. Your mind has already accepted these changes, but now your body must play catch-up. This in turn affects your mind once again.”_

_“Everything will stabilize soon enough. Have patience.”_

Either Hannibal knows exactly what’s going on and doesn’t want to freak him out, or he’s actually in favor of this new Will and doesn’t want to interfere. Based on Hannibal’s actions during their hunt for Hobbs, Will is leaning more towards the latter. If it’s true, then it’s monstrously unethical and Will should probably be concerned. He’s not, though. Hannibal smells good, talks to him like an equal, lets him vent about whatever the hell he wants without judgement, and, most importantly: he’s a great lay.

Will absolutely would not have bitten him back at the motel in Minneapolis if he had known at the time just how great Hannibal is in bed. Oddly enough, he also doesn’t seem to mind bottoming every time. Will wouldn’t mind trying it himself once in a while, but there’s just something so erotic about bending a man larger and stronger than himself over the nearest surface and fucking his brains out.

The sound of his cell phone vibrating where it sits in a repurposed cup holder interrupts his musings. He glances at it, but because he’s driving and unable to see the caller ID, he lets it ring until it connects to voicemail. When it immediately starts ringing again, he pulls over onto the shoulder so he can answer it.

“Hel-”

“We’ve got bodies out in the forest near Baltimore,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting. “I’m sending you the address.”

∞

“Local police found some tire tracks on a hidden service road and some small animal traps in the surrounding area,” says Jack.

“He wanted to keep his crop undisturbed,” Will says, ducking under the bright yellow ‘Do not Cross’ tape.

“The only thing missing is the scarecrow.”

Will glances at the line of bodies for a second before he realizes something, or rather someone, is missing.

“Where’s Hannibal?” he asks.

Jack shrugs. “Couldn’t get a hold of him on such short notice. You can behave yourself this one time, right?”

He slaps Will on the shoulder before stepping away when one of the local police officers calls for him. Will knows it was a joke. Jack isn’t really that concerned about him ‘behaving himself’ so long as he gets the job done. Still, it irks him. He’s been here exactly four minutes and is already in a sour mood-that’s got to be a new record.

“Okay, we’ve got nine bodies,” Jimmy says, introducing Will to the scene. “Various stages of decay, and, as you can see, all very well fertilized.”

“He buried them in a high nutrient compost,” Beverly says. “He was enthusiastically encouraging decomposition.”

“They were buried alive with the intention of keeping them that way…” says Brian, “I mean, for a little while.”

“Long enough for the fungus to eat away any distinguishing characteristics.”

“Line and rebar were used to administer intravenous fluids after they were buried,” Brian gestures towards the aforementioned line draping from the tree nearest him. “He was feeding them something.”

Will leans forward to better examine the closest body. It’s really more mushroom than human at this point, he thinks. What really stands out to him is the lack of any sort of restraining device. He can’t imagine anyone could just sleep peacefully while fungi ate them alive.

“No restraints?”

“Just dirt,” says Jimmy.

“The other end of the air-supply system comes up over there,” Beverly says, pointing to his right. “It isn’t a very considerate clean air solution, which clearly wasn’t a priority, ‘cause he isn’t lazy.”

“No, he’s not,” Will agrees.

The forensics team, having finished their explanation, remove themselves from the scene. They’ve done this enough times by now to understand and at least pretend to respect that Will needs privacy to do his thing. Even Hannibal, clingy as he can be, knows to give him some space for this part.

Will walks a circle around the scene to find the best position from which he can see everything laid out in front of him. He tunes out the background chatter as much as he can, then closes his eyes and lets the pendulum swing.

 _He does not bind his victim’s hands or feet as he buries him in a shallow grave._ _His victim is alive, twitching as the cold dirt hits his naked skin, but he will never be conscious again. He places the tube inside his mouth, tapes the mouthpiece down so it stays where he needs it to be._

_His victim won’t know that he’s dying. He doesn’t need him to._

_He runs the line, attaches it and his victim’s arm to the rebar. This is his design._

Will is jerked out of his trance by the pull of a hand on his arm. Without thinking first, he tears that arm away and swings out with his other, his fist unfortunately connecting with the still-alive victim’s face. Realizing what he’s just done, Will shoots back up onto his feet to the mixed sounds of startled gasps and frantic shouts. Someone’s talking to him but Will’s too shaken, too ashamed of his own reflexes. He shakes his head and takes a few steps back, then turns and half-runs all the way back to his car.

He starts the ignition and, noticing the mess on the back of his hand, swears and reaches into his glove box for a napkin. He scrubs at it furiously, cursing when it becomes clear he’s going to need soap and water to get it all off. He throws the napkin out, and takes a few deep breaths before shifting into drive. He can wash his hands properly at the office.

∞

“Everyone saw,” he says. “One of them was still alive and what did I do? I punched him in the face.”

Will huffs a bitter laugh, covering his face in shame. His hands may be clean now but his conscience certainly isn’t. After arriving at Hannibal’s practice, he’s gotten no less than three calls from Jack and twice as many texts from Beverly, to whom he’s certain he’s never given his number. He’s too ashamed to respond to any of them.

“Did you want to harm him?” Hannibal asks, though it’s clearly rhetorical. His suit today is at least four times as extravagant as the one Will had last seen him in. It would be distracting if Will wasn’t already used to it by now.

“No. Obviously not. I just…”

“Your body reacted before you had time to think. Anyone would be startled by something like that; you cannot let yourself be so torn up about it.”

“I know, but that’s just the problem! I’ve never acted like this before. I’ve never reacted to anything like this before,” Will groans. “It’s like my default reaction to anything even remotely unpleasant now is to lash out - whether it’s a dead body coming back to life or someone being polite and letting me know I’ve dropped something. It’s not normal.”

Hannibal must have gotten up from his chair at some point during his mini rant, as Will is met with the unexpected image of him thrusting a glass of wine into his face as soon as he drops his hands. Will bares his teeth and hisses at the offending glass before his mind registers what’s going on. He can feel his face heating up as he awkwardly takes the glass from Hannibal, screaming internally at himself for behaving like a frightened cat.

“You see what I mean?” He asks when it becomes apparent the other man isn’t going to address what had just happened. “My reflexes are first to arrive at the party, and then my thoughts show up halfway through to complain that they weren’t invited.”

“You say that like they’re totally absent,” Hannibal says.

“It feels like they are,” Will says. “I feel...out of control.”

He takes a sip of the wine; something robust and undoubtedly expensive. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised the first time Hannibal offered him a drink during one of their sessions. He’s never heard of any other psychiatrist keeping alcohol in their public office, but it suits Hannibal. The man continues to prove himself totally unlike the rest of his ilk as time goes on.

“It’s stress,” says Hannibal. “The nature of your work lends itself to it. You’ve been holding yourself back all your life. Now that this ‘out of control’ part of you has had a taste of freedom, it refuses to be caged again. You’ll either need to remove yourself from the source of this stress, or find a way to cope. Find a way to release all these pent up emotions in a manner that doesn’t compromise your work or your relationships.”

“What could I possibly do to compromise our relationship?” Will asks.

“Not much,” Hannibal says after a brief pause.

“So you were lying when you said you’d never leave me!” Will exclaims, only half-joking.

“I knew there had to be _something_ -tell me! ”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Hannibal says with a smirk.

“What? Why not?”

“Because then you’ll feel compelled to do it.”

“I can’t say I follow but...alright. I’ll drop it. For now.”

There’s a moment of quiet while they nurse their drinks. Will commends himself for maintaining eye contact all the while, despite the intensity of the bedroom eyes Hannibal starts giving him halfway through. It’s odd, he thinks, that the atmosphere inevitably shifts so abruptly when they’re alone together. Is this normal? Do other couples act like this, or are they unique in this regard?

He’s hoping whatever Hannibal says next will lead to sex, but he’s caught off guard when, instead, Hannibal veers to a new topic.

“I spoke with Alana the other day. About Abigail.”

Will sighs in disappointment. Never has he been turned off so quickly before.

“I’m assuming you got the same dressing-down I did?”

“She was not happy about our frequent visits. I reminded her that Abigail has had no luck connecting with any of the other girls at Port Haven, and that it is better she connects with someone who understands her trauma than no one at all. She was adamant, but so was I.”

“I get what she’s trying to tell us,” Will admits, “But I don’t want to.”

Hannibal nods, tapping his index finger against his armrest.

“I feel the same. Abigail is our charge now. I am concerned, however, that the depth of our bond with her is...uneven.”

“What do you mean?” Will asks, brow furrowing. He’s not sure he wants to hear the answer.

“We’re both busy men,” Hannibal says, “But I am located much closer to Abigail than yourself. I see her several times a week, but she’s only seen you twice so far.”

He pauses momentarily, like he’s giving Will time to correct him. Will wishes he could, but it would be a lie. He really has only seen her twice since she’s recovered.

“I don’t want you to be no more than an idea in her head, Will, but with our busy schedules and the distance between us, I’m not sure how we can all be together. I don’t want Abigail to know you only through me, but I cannot see an alternative for now.”

At a loss for words, Will can only nod. The way Hannibal’s looking at him isn’t exactly pitying, but it’s similar enough to inspire _self_ pity.

“How is she?” Will asks, hoping for something positive to pull him out of his slump.

“She is coping as best as she can–I may disagree with Alana on some things, but she has done a great job with Abigail. She still feels guilty about what her father has done, but she doesn’t let it control her. I believe she needs more time to get to know us as friends before she can fully accept us as guardians.”

“That’s logical,” Will says, albeit reluctantly, “But there’s just so much I want to show her. I want to teach her to fish and how to fix things. I want to see her out playing with the dogs every morning. Yeah, I can do all that as just her friend, I guess, but...it’s just not the same. It doesn’t feel right.”

“While I don’t have dogs of my own for her to romp around with, I feel much the same. There will be plenty of time for all of that, Will, but I am afraid I must say something you aren’t going to like.”

“Well don’t hold back on my account.”

“I implore you not to fantasize about these things too much. If you do, you will develop your own image of Abigail to replace the real one. I fear this is already happening in reverse. The time we spend going back and revising our views of each other is time we could spend moving forward.”

There’s nothing insulting about what Hannibal has just said. He isn’t being aggressive, chastising, or looking down on him. He’s trying to help–Will’s mind understands this, but his fingers are clawing at the armchair and the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up, like Hannibal’s now a threat somehow.

“You will only be disappointed if you continue to imagine Abigail as the perfect vessel for all that unused paternal love your alpha nature has gifted you.”

“You’re right,” Will says through gritted teeth, “I don’t want to hear this.”

He stands, frightened and appalled by his own anger and desperate to get away before he says something he regrets, or worse: tries to physically hurt Hannibal again. He’s nearly at the exit when a strong pair of arms snake around his midsection, pulling him tight against the body behind him. It takes every bit of Will’s determination not to retaliate, despite how warm and inviting Hannibal is.

“I don’t mean to invalidate your feelings, Will.” Hannibal’s voice rumbles through his chest. “I only wish to help you better understand them.”

His teeth ache. His entire body is trembling with the need to fight back, but against what? Hannibal isn’t fighting him. Hannibal isn’t a threat. His words aren’t even a threat. So why does he feel like this?

“What do you need, Will? What can I do to make you feel better?”

 _You could stop talking_ , Will thinks. It’s certainly not the first time he’s wanted to tell Hannibal to shut up. He doesn’t think he can actually do it. Hannibal may say things he hates, but he has much more to say that Will genuinely wants to hear. It’s absurd, but a small part of him is afraid that Hannibal may never speak again if he tells him to stop.

“Let me help you,” Hannibal murmurs, breath hot against the shell of his ear. A few seconds pass and then he takes the flimsy piece of cartilage between his teeth, nibbling on it.

That does it.

Will breaks free of his cage, spinning around and shoving the other man backwards onto the ottoman before he can react. Hannibal looks startled at first, but he doesn’t resist when Will forcefully guides him to prop his head up on the headrest. Will kneels over his chest so that his crotch is level with Hannibal’s face.

“You can start by putting that mouth of yours to good use,” He says, grabbing a handful of Hanniba’s hair. The dark look Hannibal gives him, along with the way he eyes Will’s growing erection and licks his lips, makes Will realize something. “This is what you want, isn’t it? You know how to tell me what you want without making me angry. Instead, you say things you know will upset me without making it too obvious.”

Will pulls Hannibal’s hair until he’s forced to let Will direct his head back to rest fully against the headrest. Hannibal’s eyes are mostly dark, pupils blown wide, but there’s a barely noticeable tinge of orange-red on the outer edges of his irises. It’s an odd color for an alpha–probably just a trick of the light or something. Regardless, it confirms his suspicion.

“You like me angry.”

Will stares down at him, daring him to deny it. Hannibal bares his teeth at him, fangs poking out a bit, but he’s certain it’s a response to the way Will is holding him back and not a denial.

“You’d better not bite,” he warns, releasing Hannibal and slowly unzipping his fly.

Hannibal swallows heavily as Will frees his cock from the confines of his boxers. He tries to reach up and touch him, but Will swats his hand away.

“Be still.”

Will holds his cock out of the way with one hand–Hannibal may be enjoying this, but something tells Will he _wouldn’t_ enjoy being smacked in the face by someone else’s genitals–and prods at Hannibal’s lips with two fingers of the other. He slides them in, pressing down on Hannibal’s tongue while he sucks on them. After a moment, he withdraws them and adds another. If Hannibal’s this thorough when it’s just his fingers, he’s not sure how long he’ll last once they’ve been replaced with his cock.

There’s only one way to find out.

Will gives Hannibal a moment to breathe before easing himself through the wet seal of his lips. Hannibal’s tongue presses up against the bottom of his shaft, and it’s too much and not enough all at once. Will pauses, closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose. He wants to take his time, wants to use Hannibal’s mouth and throat until he can’t take it anymore, but it’s impossible. He’s close already just from the things Hannibal’s been doing with his tongue.

He pulls out, ignoring the displeased grunt Hannibal gives him.

“Enough of that,” Will says, gripping Hannibal by the chin. “Keep your mouth open and don’t. Move. _Anything._ ”

He waits a few seconds for his words to fully sink in, then adjusts his position a bit. He slides in slowly like before, continuing even when he both hears and feels Hannibal choke around him a bit. Confident Hannibal can handle all of him, Will doesn’t stop until Hannibal’s nose is buried in his pubic hair.

Will growls at the sight, too overwhelmed to move yet. He’s aware Hannibal will need to breathe soon, but that’s not his concern as of yet. In a direct yet very welcome violation of Will’s previous order, Hannibal swallows around him, and then whatever coherent thought he had is gone to the wind.

Will pulls almost all the way out, and then slams back in. Hannibal makes a noise that could imply either discomfort or pleasure, but Will is too far gone to care. He pulls back out again, forging a steady rhythm of shallow thrusts which continues for about a minute before he climaxes, shooting his load down Hannibal’s throat. Hannibal doesn’t choke this time. He swallows everything Will gives him, continuing to suck him even as Will starts to pull out.

They both take a few minutes to catch their breath. Embarrassingly, Will takes longer. Hannibal guides his limp body off of him so he can stand, then leaves momentarily. Will must have closed his eyes at some point, as he opens them to see that Hannibal has brought them drinks again–water this time, amazingly. Will doesn’t think he’s seen the man drink anything non-alcoholic before.

“Thanks,” he mumbles as Hannibal helps him sit up.

He feels a spark of guilt when Hannibal doesn’t say anything, instead clearing his throat and rubbing it with his free hand. It dies out when Hannibal sits next to him and slings an arm around his neck, pulling him in.

“So,” Will says after finishing his water, “Is it true?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you like me when I’m angry?”

Will barely suppresses the urge to chuckle at the image of Hannibal attempting to smooch an oversized, green-skinned and heavily muscled imitation of himself. In the process, he realizes that Hannibal has never actually tried to kiss him before.

They’ve _never_ kissed.

“I always like you, Will,” Hannibal says, pausing to clear his throat again. His voice sounds rough. “I like you no matter how you feel.”

“Yes, but do you prefer me when I’m angry?”

Hannibal is quiet long enough that Will thinks he isn’t going to get an answer.

“I prefer you when you don’t hold back,” he eventually admits.

Will doesn’t bother asking for clarification–that’s not what he wants right now. He desperately wants to kiss Hannibal, but he’s not sure how to initiate it now that he’s feeling more like himself again. He didn’t even bother to help Hannibal get off, so why should he expect more from him?

“The arms,” Hannibal says out of nowhere.

“What?”

“Why did the killer leave them exposed? To hold their hands? To feel the life leaving their bodies?”

“No,” says Will, surprised they’ve essentially circled back to their original topic. “That’s too esoteric for someone who took the time to bury his victims in a straight line. He’s more practical.”

“He was cultivating them,” says Hannibal as he turns his body towards Will.

“He was keeping them alive. He was feeding them intravenously.”

“But your farmer let his crops die. Save for the one that didn’t.”

“Yeah, the one I punched. They weren’t crops, they were fertilizer. The bodies were covered in fungus.”

Hannibal sighs.

“The structure of a fungus mirrors that of the human brain–an intricate web of connections.”

 _Connections._ Of course.

“So maybe he admires their ability to connect the way human minds can’t,” Will suggests.

“Yours can.”

His matter-of-fact tone makes Will laugh. Like he’s some kind of superhuman mind reader and Hannibal’s merely stating the obvious.

“Yep. Um…” Will stutters a bit as Hannibal leans forward, pressing a hand against the side of his face. “Yeah, not physically.”

“Is that what your farmer is looking for?”

Distracted by the thumb stroking his cheek, Will forgets for a split second that the man Hannibal is referring to is probably not, in fact, just any old farmer.

“Some sort of connection?” Hannibal asks, gently running his fingers through Will’s hair.

Right now, Will thinks he truly understands this ‘farmer’ of his. He wants nothing more than to _really_ connect with the man currently massaging his scalp. His eyes are drawn to Hannibal’s mouth when the latter’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Hannibal looks like that’s what’s on his mind as well, but before they can do anything about it, there’s a loud clattering on the other side of the door. Then, another.

“I thought you were done for the day,” Will says with a frown.

“I was,” says Hannibal as he drops his hand and stands from his seat.

Will follows, scenting the air as they both make their way cautiously to the door. There’s someone out there –smells like an omega. Probably not a threat. Hannibal motions for him to stand back a bit, as he’s unintentionally crowding him in, then opens the door halfway.

There’s a slender, red-haired omega woman crouched on the floor of the waiting room, frantically shoving something into her bag. As she notices their attention, she drops what she’s holding, producing the same clattering sound they’d just heard.

It’s an audio recording device. It’s still recording.

Humiliated and infuriated, Will steps past Hannibal with a fierce growl. The omega falls rather ungracefully onto her backside as he looms over her, both hands clenched into fists.

“Wait, wait! I can explain…”

“Miss Kimbal?” Hannibal says, confusion coloring his tone. “Your appointment isn’t until tomorrow, is it not?”

He comes out to stand at Will’s side, cautiously unclenching Will’s fist and holding it in his own hand. When Will doesn’t react, he leans in close to his ear and whispers:

“Let me take care of this.”

Will wants to rip everything out of this woman’s hand and smash it all on the ground until it’s unrecognizable and unrepairable. He doesn’t think Hannibal would stop him if he did. What does stop him, however, is the thought that only Hannibal can resolve this situation in a way that doesn’t come back to hurt them later on.

“It’s late,” Hannibal says aloud. “You should leave now if you want to make it home before dark.”

Will turns to look at him, searching his face for any clue as to how he really feels about this. Finding nothing, he sighs and goes back into the office briefly to collect his things. He bares his teeth and hisses at the omega woman for good measure on his way out.

∞

Will finds himself at the B.A.U. in Quantico the next morning. He’s sent Hannibal several texts asking about what happened with that ‘Miss Kimbal,’ but the only response he’s received so far is _‘It’s handled.’_

“What were they soaked in?” Will asks, gesturing at one of the mushroom-covered bodies.

“A highly concentrated mixture of hardwoods, shredded newspaper, and pig poop,” says Jimmy. “Perfect for growing mushrooms and other fungi.”

“It was not the mushrooms, though,” Brian says. “They all died of kidney failure.”

“Dextrose in all the catheters,” says Beverly as she comes around the corner. She hands Brian a thick packet of paper, which he takes and slides into the folder in his hand. “He probably used some kind of dialysis or peristaltic to pump fluids after their circulatory systems broke down.”

“Force-feeding them sugar water?” Will asks, reaching for his cup of coffee where it sits at the head of one of the examination tables. He’s complained more than once about how difficult it is to get by with shitty lab coffee now that he’s had Hannibal’s gourmet version. Hannibal, culinary savior that he is, gifted Will with a homemade creamer to ease his suffering. Even with the creamer, the coffee still isn’t as good as what he had in the motel that morning, but it’s just this side of tolerable.

“You know who loves sugar water? Mushrooms. They crave it,” says Jimmy.

“Recovering alcoholics, they crave sugar. Don’t take that personally, buddy,” Brian says with a friendly pat to Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Oh, I’m not recovering.”

“Feed sugar to the fungus in your body, the fungus creates alcohol. So it’s like friends helping friends, really.”

“It’s not just alcoholics who have compromised endocrine systems,” Will says. “They all died of kidney failure?”

There’s a couple murmured affirmations.

“Death by diabetic ketoacidosis,” he suggests.

“Did you know they were diabetics?” Beverly asks Brian.

“We don’t know they’re diabetics.”

“No, they’re all diabetics,” Will presses. “He induces a coma and puts them in the ground.”

“How is he inducing diabetic comas?” Beverly asks.

“Changes their medication. So he’s a doctor or a pharmacist or he works somewhere in medical services.”

“He buries them, feeds them sugar to keep them alive long enough for the circulatory systems to soak it up,” Beverly says, adapting to his theory.

“So he can feed the mushrooms!” Jimmy exclaims.

“We dug up his mushroom garden,” Brian says.

“Yeah, he’s gonna want to grow a new one.”

Job done for now, Will takes his exit. He throws the now-empty coffee cup in the nearest trash bin on his way out, ignoring the stare he can feel on his back. If they need something from him, they can call him back later.

Right now, Will needs to see Abigail. He figures it’s as good a time as any since he’s so close by. Well, not exactly close but certainly much closer than he normally would be. He could call ahead, have someone let her know he’s coming, but he doesn’t. If she’s going to say no, he would rather her do it in person than over the phone, or worse: through someone else. Like he and Hannibal discussed the day before, he doesn’t see her often. Every extra minute he can squeeze in here and there will benefit them all in the long run.

Thankfully, she seems glad to see him when he arrives at Port Haven. Very glad, in fact. She rushes right up to him and wraps her arms around him in a tight but brief hug.

“Hey, Will,” she says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Yeah, I didn’t either. Not until I was half an hour away,” Will says. “Say, why don’t we get out of here? I know you must be bored of this place by now.”

“Yeah, that’s an understatement.” She walks with him up to the counter to check out, but pauses when she’s handed the pen. “Shoot. I forgot I have an appointment with Dr. Bloom in a couple hours.”

“Did you want to meet with her?”

Abigail’s brow furrows as she looks at him for an explanation for the bizarre question.

He knows he’s being ridiculous, but he’s still sore over that lecture Alana gave him. If he were still his usual self, he would have just apologized for showing up out of the blue and scheduled a time to come get Abigail later. That would be the reasonable thing to do. Only, Will isn’t feeling very reasonable these days, so instead he says:

“Don’t worry. I’ll shoot her a text, let her think it’s all my fault.”

“You won’t get in trouble?”

“Nah,” Will says with a shake of his head. “If it was against the rules they wouldn’t let me check you out in the first place.”

“...Okay,” Abigail says. “Lead the way.”

Will apologizes for the mess as they climb into his car, but Abigail doesn’t seem to mind. He can smell her excitement as she leans towards him just a bit to get her seatbelt on. It’s incredible how much she’s changed since she first woke up at the hospital. Will’s not naive enough to believe she’s all better now, but she’s clearly making good progress. He wonders briefly if she would be the same had Hannibal been her primary caretaker, instead of Alana. He’s almost jealous that she’s stabilizing so quickly while he seems to be doing the opposite.

“Are you hungry?” Will asks as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Not really,” Abigail says. “You?”

“A little. Think I can wait until we’re closer to my place though.”

“Oh yeah, where do you even live? Hannibal told me you lived in a little town pretty far off but he didn’t say where.”

“Wolf trap,” Will says.

“Oh. That in Virginia?”

“Yep. Population: fourteen thousand.”

“Oh wow. That is little.”

“I like the quiet,” Will says with a shrug. “It’s only a problem now with you and Hannibal being in Baltimore.”

“Mmm.”

They’re quiet for most of the long drive. It’s not uncomfortable–not exactly, but Will wishes he knew how to keep the conversation going. It’s unfortunate that the only things he keeps in his handy box of conversation starters are fishing and dog-related anecdotes, forensic mysteries, and tales of murder.

When they’re close to town, Will asks her again if she’s hungry.

“Yeah, I definitely am now. What’s on the menu?”

“Anything you like,” Will says, “But if it’s too fancy we’re gonna have to call Hannibal down here to make it.”

Abigail laughs.

“Honestly, I’ve had enough of Hannibal’s fancy food recently.”

She takes a moment to think, considering the bright neon signs of various fast food joints they pass on the way.

“I’m feeling kinda nostalgic,” Abigail says, “How about...McDonald’s?”

“Been a long time since I’ve had a Big Mac myself,” says Will. “McDonald’s it is.”

They pull into the drive-thru about twenty minutes from Will’s home after he explains he would prefer they not eat in the car, mostly because it’s messy enough already and Will doesn’t want to make it worse.

“I was curious about all this...dog hair,” Abigail says, pinching a single brown hair between her thumb and index finger. “But I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Yeah, I hope you like dogs,” Will says. “Because I have a lot of them.”

“What, like five?”

“More.”

“Six?”

“More,” Will grins at her, enjoying this silly little game they’re playing.

Abigail rests her chin on her fist and makes a face like she’s concentrating really hard as Will pays for and accepts the food he’s given at the window.

“Fifteen!” She says, clapping her hands together like she’s figured it out.

“Fifteen?! I’m not running a shelter!” Will chuckles. “I have seven.”

He hands her the bag with her food in it and sets her drink in the second cup holder before he pulls back out onto the main road.

“Yeah, but would you have fifteen if you could?”

“No...that’s too much even for me,” Will says, but he can definitely picture it.

Abigail giggles, calls him a liar and throws her rolled-up straw wrapper at him. He catches it–always has been a one-handed driver–and throws it back at her before joking that she’s going to cause him to wreck.

“But yeah, I like dogs,” says Abigail. “Never had one myself, but I like them.”

Will jumps at the opportunity to use one of his dog anecdotes–specifically, the time Buster scared a pack of coyotes off his front porch and terrified his owner in the process. He launches into another dog story right after that, and then another after that one, but he gives it a rest when it becomes clear that Abigail is a bit overwhelmed. She asks to use the radio once they’ve run out of things to talk about, and ends up tuning it to some pop country station. The song playing sounds like something from the early 2000’s, but Will has never listened to music much and doesn’t recognize it. She’s clearly heard it before, as she starts to sing along halfway through while she stares out the window.

Abigail’s time with Hannibal and Alana must really be helping her, Will thinks, or perhaps she’s just that resilient on her own. He knows she’s still greatly troubled by everything, but she’s doing a fantastic job of hiding it and pretending everything’s alright. He hopes that, someday, she’ll reach a point where she won’t have to pretend anymore.

They pull up at the house just as the song ends. Abigail visibly perks up at the sound of barking. She stands back once they’re out of the car, like she’s worried she’ll be crushed in a literal dogpile, but Will assures her that his dogs are all very well-trained. The door opens just before they get to it and everyone comes running out to hop excitedly around Will and investigate the newcomer.

Abigail greets each of the dogs one-by-one, giving Will a furtive look.

“I thought you lived alone,” she says.

Before Will can correct her, Trey emerges from inside.

“Oh, I don’t live here. I just watch the pack for Will when he’s gone. Name’s Trey,” he says, closing the door behind him.

“Abigail. Nice to meet you.”

“How were they?” Will asks, giving Max a couple pats on the back.

“I don’t know why you always ask me that,” says Trey. “They’re always perfect little angels–except you, Buster.”

Buster looks up and yips at him like he thinks it’s a compliment. All three of the humans laugh.

“I’m just kiddin.’ He’s great too, just a little...adventurous.”

“Yeah, Buster tends to think he’s a lot bigger than he really is. Anyways,” Will reaches into his pocket for his wallet–a bit frayed at the edges, probably needs replacing–and pulls out a few twenties. He hands them over to Trey, who doesn’t bother counting. “We brought extra McDonald’s if you want some.”

“Oh that’s perfect timing, actually, I was just ‘bout to heat up some spaghetti.”

They make their way inside after the dogs have calmed down a bit and they can get all the food inside. Abigail wonders aloud if she’ll be able to eat with all the begging and Will and Trey both assure her the dogs don’t beg–especially if they’ve eaten recently, which they have. Sure enough, the dogs mostly leave them alone. Ellie does insist on sitting at Abigail’s feet, though.

They start off talking about the dogs again between mouthfuls, but the conversation quickly drifts off to everyday, mundane things Will doesn’t much care for but is glad to hear Abigail talk about. Her and Trey seem to be getting along as they laugh about something embarrassing some pop celebrity did last year. Will pretends to know what they’re talking about and tries his best to not regret their choice in food, but he kind of fails.

The nostalgia his Big Mac brings doesn’t really seem worth it when compared to Hannibal’s cooking, which is not only a million times better but fresh and masterfully prepared every time. Fast food is a hit or miss with a one to three ratio. Thoughts of Hannibal’s cooking naturally turn into thoughts about the man himself, and Will finds that he’s a bit sad Hannibal isn’t with them now. He’s sure Hannibal wouldn’t take a single bite of one of these burgers to save his life, but he resents his absence nonetheless.

As Will watches Trey and Abigail debate what music genre is superior, Will remembers what Alana had said before about Abigail needing to branch out and connect with people whose names weren’t Hannibal or Will. He thinks it over for a second, then interrupts the friendly debate to ask when the dogs were last let out before they got there.

Trey says it’s been long enough that a walk now wouldn’t be too unusual, so Will makes up an excuse about needing to grade homework he’s already graded, and suggests they take the dogs out on an evening walk around the property. Abigail looks a bit confused by the suggestion but agrees when Trey says it sounds like a great idea. He asks Will if he can go ahead and call a cab for him, since it’ll be late by the time he gets home if he doesn’t leave soon. Will does so as soon as they’re out the door.

It’s weird being alone inside the house without his dogs. Too quiet, almost to the point that Will regrets not going with them, which would have totally defeated the purpose. Some small, insecure and illogical part of him deep down is worried that Abigail’s just going to get attached to Trey and lose all interest in him. He berates himself for such a silly thought and tells himself it’s all up to her anyways. She’s an adult now and she needs to be the one to decide who she wants to hang out with.

Will wonders if there’s something seriously wrong with him mentally. Having moments like these every once in a while wouldn’t be cause for concern, but they’re almost constant these days. There’s the way he acts around Hannibal: desperate for his attention even when he has it, flip-flopping between angry and aroused in the blink of an eye. He’s much quicker to anger when Hannibal isn’t around, also. He’s having more nightmares but isn’t remembering any of them when he wakes up drenched in sweat. He’s overly protective and defensive. He was never interested in any of this family business before, but now he finds he really does want it. Or something like it, at the very least. It’s strange how much and how quickly the introduction of Hannibal into his life has changed him and he’s not sure if it says more about him or about Hannibal.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Will calls out, as Trey and Abigail obviously wouldn’t have bothered to knock.

“FBI, open up!”

It’s Beverly.

Will reluctantly makes his way to the door.

“You got a warrant?” He asks, hesitating to open it.

“Well, no. But I do have pizza and alcohol!”

“Good enough, I guess.”

He opens the door, taking the surprisingly large case of bourbon out of her hands so she can focus on getting the pizza and herself over the threshold.

“How do you know my address?” Will asks her once she’s inside.

“It isn’t exactly a secret.”

As Beverly makes herself comfortable, Will just kind of stands there awkwardly. He’s torn between the purely alpha need to protect his territory from another alpha and the desire to express his gratitude for the drinks.

“So, I’m just gonna go ahead and address the elephant in the room before it starts stomping around and demanding peanuts: nobody’s mad at you for punching the last living mushroom guy.”

“That’s good. I guess.”

“Definitely. You can rest assured knowing that nobody thinks you’re any more weird than you were before. Also, I would definitely choose you first to be my zombie apocalypse team captain, should it ever come to that.”

Will appreciates that she doesn’t try to gloss over the fact that people do, in fact, already think he’s weird.

“You have dogs,” She says, pointing at one of the many dog beds strewn across the living room floor with the end of a slice of pizza.

“Yeah, you gonna offer me a slice, or…?”

“Did you not just have McDonald’s?” She asks, lifting up one of the burger wrappers.

“That could easily be from hours ago, but yes. I had McDonald’s. Doesn’t mean I don’t also want pizza.”

“Alright, okay. Here.”

Beverly slides the open pizza box towards him. He doesn’t really want pizza, but the Big Mac wasn’t as filling as he had expected, and he’s afraid if he goes to bed hungry he won’t be able to fall asleep.

“I used to have a dog,” Beverly says as Will pulls off a slice of pepperoni and eats it alone. “A fat little chihuahua named Peanut. He was really old by the time I first started school. He died my second week of kindergarten. I was too young to understand what death was, so my parents told me he ran away.”

“Classic excuse,” Will says. “I feel like I’m the only one whose parents didn’t try it.”

“Yeah. I cried all day thinking I did something to make him hate me. Only thing I really remember about him besides him being old and fat is that he’d snore real funny when he slept all curled up next to me. I was actually relieved to find out he’d just died of old age when I got older.”

“My first dog was a beagle my dad stole from a breeder while he was drunk. My dad was a real rough ‘n tough kinda guy but he always appreciated how loyal dogs can be. Plus he used to hunt with them when he was a kid.”

Will takes a minute to finish his pizza slice, then reaches for another.

“The one time my dad took me camping, Gus, that’s the beagle, got lost chasing something in the woods for an hour. I went looking for him and almost got lost myself. By the time I found him barking up a tree and carried him back to the camp, my dad was packing up to leave. Said he would’ve left us both if we’d been gone any longer.”

“I’m sure he was just trying to scare you so you wouldn’t run off again. My bff’s dad was kinda like that. Always threatening to do this or that in a way where you never knew if he was serious or not, except for the fact that he never followed through on any of it.”

“Yeah, probably,” Will agrees but, deep down, he still isn’t sure about anything his dad said.

“Well, we have that in common,” says Beverly. “Only camping once as kids, I mean. I wanted to be a Girl Scout until I realized they weren’t anything like the Boy Scouts, but I still really wanted to go camping and whatnot, so my mom signed me up for this shitty all-girls camp where we would basically just learn how to knit things and how to gather fruit. Proper _girly_ things. I was one of only two non-white girls there. I got called “China Girl” instead of my name all the time.”

“Geeze. It’s easy to forget how needlessly cruel kids can be sometimes,” Will says in between bites. He should probably not eat anymore after this slice.

“They take after their parents, I guess,” Beverly says with a shrug. “I’d already learned to act as white as possible back then, so when I ended up presenting one night at the camp, I knew I was going to have to hide it. Unfortunately...”

Beverly reaches for two cans of bourbon, handing Will one of them and popping hers open, taking a big drink before continuing.

“Ah! Unfortunately, I got into a silly argument with one of the most annoying preppy girls there. I don’t remember how it started, but it ended with her saying ‘bite me!’ Younger me, who was feeling particularly hostile and who also wasn’t thinking straight, actually did.

Will nearly chokes on his drink a bit.

“Seriously?” he asks.

“Yup. Everyone freaked out and started screaming about there being a vampire in their midst. They were all from beta families, I think, and they clearly didn’t know anything about alphas. One of the girls even started sharpening a big stick she found on the ground, saying she was gonna stake my heart with it or something.”

Will laughs at the image she’s described. Betas can be truly ridiculous sometimes. One would think there would be more information about the other secondary genders in schools at the very least, but then most can’t even manage to fit a single mention of homosexuality into their curriculum.

“I can’t say I’ve had to deal with anything quite like that,” Will says, taking another sip of the bourbon. It’s nowhere near as good as anything Hannibal’s given him, of course, but it’s not bad. He should probably stop comparing everything to Hannibal’s version of it or he’s never going to be able to enjoy anything ever again.

“Surely you have at least one awkward coming-out story, though, right? I think we all do.”

“Not really. Never stayed anywhere longer than a couple months, plus I tried really hard to hide.”

“Nothing in your adult life either? Besides that time in the lab?” Beverly presses.

Will can’t imagine why she seems to care about this so much.

“Well...I guess you could say I accidentally forced another guy to come out to me in an embarrassing way. Embarrassing to me, I mean.”

“Go on…” Beverly urges.

She pulls her legs up in her chair like a small child getting ready for a parent to read them their favorite bedtime story. Is it just gossip she wants? No, that’s not it. She’s already proven she can keep secrets. Sort of.

“I’d only known this guy for a day or two. Decided almost immediately I didn’t like him, even though he was nice enough, really. We were working on something together and he said something that really pissed me off. I went almost full red and tried to choke the guy out, only…”

He takes another alcohol break, already feeling the bourbon warm him up from the inside. Beverly is making him uncomfortable with this wide-eyed stare she’s giving him, but he gets the feeling if he stops now, leaves her on this cliffhanger, she’ll pester him about it every time she sees him.

“Only to get my just desserts, ‘cause what the guy said wasn’t even that bad in retrospect. He totally one-upped me, showed his fangs and lifted me right off my feet like I weighed nothing.”

“Shit. How’d you get out of that?”

“I was lucky he wasn’t actually mad…”

“Wait,” Beverly interrupts him. “Let me get this straight. You choked the guy over basically nothing, and he wasn’t mad? The hell was he doing picking you up then?”

Will’s...not sure,actually. It would have been much more on-brand for him if Hannibal had just told him he was an alpha outright. If that didn’t work, showing Will his fangs certainly would have been enough. He wasn’t angry. There _was_ no need to lift him up like that.

“He was just showing off, I guess”, Will says, going with the only semi-logical excuse he can muster.

“That’s...kind of weird,” Beverly says with a frown. “Unless he had a thing for you. Did he have a thing for you?”

Shit.

“Uhhh...maybe. Yeah, I guess. Sort of?”

“Do you still know the guy?”

Will just blinks at her, uncomfortable with the direction this is heading.

“You do!” She says, taking his silence as an answer. “And you don’t seem surprised.”

Will reaches for the bourbon again, desperate for an easy distraction.

“You don’t seem surprised,” she repeats. “You’re totally dating that guy now, aren’t you?”

This time, Will does choke. He covers his mouth as he coughs a bit, still avoiding Beverly’s eyes. He hears the legs of the chair scraping the floor as she pulls it back enough to get up, and then she’s at his side, slapping his back like she’s trying to burp him.

“It’s ok. I won’t tell! I don’t even know who it is, so. No idea what I would even get out of telling everyone: ‘Hey guys, Will has a boyfriend!’ I mean, okay, who cares? No offense, by the way.”

She sits down again once it’s clear Will has recovered. If she’s looking for an admission, she’s not going to get one. Will may not be able to change her mind at this point, but so long as she doesn’t know who his ‘boyfriend’ is, it shouldn’t be a problem. So far as he knows, Beverly’s only spoken directly to Hannibal once or twice, both of those times occurring at a crime scene. Regardless, Will’s really going to have to be much, much more careful when Hannibal eventually comes back to the field with him.

“How many alphas do you know, then?” Beverly asks, blessedly satisfied with what she’s heard.

“Just you and him,” Will says.

“Yeah, you’re the only one I know. It’s kinda weird considering how many of us there are in this profession.”

“Maybe it’s because they’re just all better at hiding than us,” Will suggests.

“Maybe.”

He’s joking, but it could very well be true. He never would have guessed Hannibal was an alpha. He didn’t look, smell, nor act like one. He didn’t trigger the same reactions Beverly did. Why does he put so much effort into hiding, even from other alphas, when he’s professed on multiple occasions that he doesn’t care about his gender or what people think of it? He didn’t seem to be lying when he said that.

What if he was, though, and Will just doesn’t know the difference? Maybe he’s not concerned about his and Will’s gender, but he is about his own image. Will doesn’t know much about the high society life, but he’s sure he’s never heard of an alpha-alpha pair before. Maybe their work relationship isn’t the only reason why Hannibal is keeping things quiet. If they didn’t also have a patient-psychiatrist relationship, would Hannibal still insist on keeping their romantic one a secret? Would he, no, _is he_ just some plaything for Hannibal to hide away and enjoy in secret, never someone worthy of being called his boyfriend or his lover? He’s quickly spiraling into a cyclone of doubt and self-pity when Beverly speaks again.

“You’re brooding. What’s up?”

“I’m not brooding,” he says. “Just thinking about all the homework I still have to grade.”

“You’re totally brooding. No one looks that sad over homework. Not even the kids that have to do it. Seriously, what’s wrong? I’m not gonna make fun of you even if you think it’s dumb.”

Will just shakes his head. He’s afraid that saying his thoughts out loud will somehow make them true.

“Alright, I’ve got it! How about I tell you something so hilariously embarrassing you immediately forget whatever you’re worrying about?”

“You can try,” Will says, doubtful.

“Okay, so it was my twenty-first birthday and, naturally, I wanted to hit all the bars. I went out with my girlfriends but they ended up ditching me at the second bar to go to this party I apparently wasn’t invited to.”

“That’s rude.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Anyways, I met this beta guy at the bar and was like, really checking him out. I could tell he was really into me too, so I went up to him for a little chat. Long story short, we got hella drunk and ended up in some hotel. I don’t know when my rut started, but it did, and apparently the guy wasn’t paying much attention ‘cause when we got naked and he saw my rut dick up close he said, and I kid you not, ‘Whoa, hold up. I’m not into guys.’”

Will surprises himself when he bursts out laughing.

“Hah! Gotcha,” Beverly says triumphantly.

“How...What...What did you?”

“Even drunk, I found that statement so offensive in so many ways both personal and indirect that I knocked him out with a solid left hook, swiped his keys, and drove his car into a ditch.”

Incredible.

“When is your rut, normally? So I can make sure to stay far, far away.”

“First week of fall,” she says, “Last week of spring.”

“Oh, great. We’re on the same schedule then. No need to go out of our way to stay out of each other’s way.”

“Neat,” says Beverly.

She reaches for another can of bourbon, but pauses when she bumps the can she’s already finished. She takes a good, long look at it, then drops her hand. A wise decision.

“So what’re you like during rut season?” she asks, “You an angry or a mopey rutter?”

Will is immediately uncomfortable again, but he does his best to hide it. Her knowing he’s dating someone isn’t preferable, but it’s not the end of the world. This matter, however, is completely different. He probably wouldn’t tell even Hannibal about this.

“I’m not sure, really,” he lies. “I’m pretty...out of it through the whole thing, and I usually just ride it out at home alone. What I do know is that I should definitely never be around another alpha during that time. Or anyone, really.”

Will looks down at his wrists briefly when he says this, making sure the rope burns aren’t visible, even though he knows there are none. The last ones healed over a month ago–exactly one week after his last rut.

He tells himself it’s necessary. Though part of him still believes it isn’t, he can’t take that chance. Not after what happened in Georgia. There’s no comfort to be found in the fact that he’s only the monster betas say he is twice a year.

“That bad, huh?” says Beverly. “Yeah, I feel you. The one on my birthday was actually one of the milder ones. A couple years later, I was getting ready for…”

Will finds it difficult to concentrate on her voice now over the sounds of screaming stopped short, of something tearing and snapping echoing in his head. He still dreams about it, sometimes. He dreams about the blurred red image of what used to be a girl, about the taste of salt and hair, the heat of the blood in his mouth.

The door opens, and Trey steps inside, followed closely by Abigail and the pack.

“Oh, Will, you didn’t tell me you...hooooly shit! That’s a lot of dogs!”

“You saw the dog beds,” Will says, silently thanking them all for unknowingly bringing him back to the present.

“Yeah, well I didn’t count them all. Besides, we had like three for Peanut alone.”

There’s a flurry of activity then: Beverly’s cooing over all the dogs, Trey’s taxi pulling up and him saying goodbye to Will and Abigail _and_ shaking Beverly’s hand and leaving rapid-fire, and Abigail introducing herself before yelling out the door, telling Trey to call her later. It’s pure chaos by Will’s definition.

“Everyone talks like you’re a hermit, but–”

“You’re pretty popular for a guy who lives out in the middle of nowhere.”

Abigail pauses on her way to the kitchen when she realizes she and Beverly are speaking over each other. The girls stare at each other for a second, and then they both start laughing. It’s obvious they’re going to get along. Will’s glad to see it, but he’s quickly becoming overwhelmed. He’s been more social today than he usually is in a month.

“I usually am a hermit living out in the middle of nowhere, actually,” he says. “You guys just caught me on the one day I’ve had more than a single person over the whole time I’ve lived here.”

“Hey, it’s a good thing. No need to get defensive over it,” Beverly jokes. “What is it with you and getting close to people from the cases you’ve worked on, though?”

“If you’re going to give me flak for that, you should know that I’ve already gotten a healthy dose from Jack and Alana first.”

“Wow. You really think I’m that uncool? Do I seem that uncool to you?” Beverly asks Abigail, who gives her a small smile but doesn’t respond.

“Look man, I don’t care who you hang out with, okay? I was just curious. Wanted to make sure it wasn’t a requirement for being your friend or something.”

“No,” Will says, “Of course not. I don’t decide who I connect with, I just...do.”

“That’s valid,” Beverly says with a nod. “Well, I think I’ve stayed long enough. Nice chatting with you, Graham. See you guys!”

“Your coworker?” Abigail asks once she’s out the door.

“Yeah,” Will says. “Get your things together and I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

∞

“She’s the chain’s tenth diabetic customer to disappear after filling a prescription for insulin,” Jack explains as they hurry through the storeroom of a grocery store Will’s already forgotten the name of, escorted by a SWAT team. “Second to disappear from this exact location.”

“The other eight?” Will asks, nearly tripping over a loose cable.

“All over the county. One pharmacist. All over the county as well.”

“Floater, huh.”

“Floater’s floating right here. Still logged in at his workstation.”

Will feels a bit sorry for the shoppers they encounter along the way. It must be pretty terrifying to turn the corner, basket full of TV dinners and snacks, to be met with multiple loaded rifles. It’s unavoidable, though, and he’d take a healthy dose of shock over another mushroom-addled diabetic any day of the week.

“Everyone, please stop what you’re doing!” Jack yells, scaring everyone behind the pharmacy counter into doing just that by the tone of his voice alone. “Put your hands in the air!”

“Special agent Jack Crawford,” he introduces himself, holding up his ID. “Which one of you is Eldon Stammets?”

“Eldon was just here,” says the man closest to him. “Just now.”

“Is his car still in the parking lot?” Will asks. He’s got a feeling they could very well find something in it if so.

“His car!” Jack shouts.

They get the man at the counter to show them out to the employee parking area, going about as fast as they can without running. It’s not far from the door they came out of, but Stammets is nowhere in sight.

“Give me your baton,” Will orders, taking it from the officer nearest him before the man has time to comply.

Will uses it to smash the driver’s side window, standing off to the side to avoid the glass shards, then reaches in and pops the trunk. He’s immediately overwhelmed by the powerful stench he’d just barely caught a whiff of when they reached the car, but he doesn’t let it deter him. He reaches in and digs through the compost until he’s freed the woman’s head.

“She’s alive!”

Jack comes around to his side, taking a second to cough before he calls for the EMT’s. As they rush to tend to the buried woman, Will and Jack quickly step out of the way.

“We know his name,” Jack says after they’re far enough away to breathe comfortably. “We have his address. We have his car.”

Whatever he’s about to say next is interrupted when Jimmy comes along, calling his name.

“We just checked the browser history at Stammets’ workstation, he says.

“Am I gonna want to hear this?” asks Jack.

“No, and yes, but mostly no.”

Jack rolls his eyes but begrudgingly follows him back inside. Will stays where he is at first, concerned about the state of the woman in the trunk, but Jimmy calls out to him.

“You’re gonna want to not hear this also, I think,” he says.

With a sigh, Will follows after them.

“Freddie Lounds,” Brian groans as they approach the counter.

“Tattlecrime dot come,” says Jack.

Beverly reads directly from the web page she has pulled up on Stammetts’ workstation. Whoever this freddie Lounds is certainly isn’t painting a pretty picture of the FBI, but Will isn’t quite sure what the big deal is. That is, until beverly reads out the words ‘...using one demented mind.’

She pauses, glancing towards Will like she’s imagining how best to continue without hurting his feelings. Will appreciates the sentiment, but he doesn’t think the rest of the article is anything he hasn’t heard before. He can handle it.

At Jack’s expectant look, Beverly says; “It’s about Will.”

“Go on,” Jack says.

“One demented mind to catch - She goes into a lot of detail,” Beverly says, waving a dismissive hand at the screen.

“Son of a bitch,” Jack grumbles, hitting the counter with the sides of his fists.

“Where does she get off dragging alphas so hard?” asks Beverly, but it’s clearly rhetorical. “We just can’t catch a fucking break, huh… _Shit_.”

She turns the workstation away and stands up straight, puffing out her chest. “Well, now you all know.”

“Now we all know what?” asks Jimmy.

“Wait. You weren’t listening?” She looks towards Will. “Did I not…?”

“We’ve known you were an alpha for a while, hun,” Brian says. “If that’s what you mean.”

Beverly gapes at him for a good twenty seconds in disbelief.

“Remember that time the three of us got together and binge watched the entire first season of _Red Door?_ You got drunk and kept complaining about how the alpha villain wasn’t realistic.”

“Yeah, so? Anyone could do that?”

“True,” Jimmy says, “But only an alpha would be so pressed about it. Also, you chew weirdly sometimes when you’re angry, and you were angry all throughout that last episode.”

“Yeah, betas don’t eat popcorn like that. Not unless they have _extra teeth._ ”

Will tunes out at this point. Curious about the author of this scathing article, he pulls out his phone and google searches the name. Every result that shows up is a link to TattleCrime, but he’s not interested in that. Instead, he switches to the image results.

He recognizes her immediately.

“Son of a bitch,” Will spits, mirroring Jack and drawing everyone’s attention. “I know her. She was trying to record my-” He pauses, realizes suddenly that he very much does not want to explain the incident.

“Trying to record your what? Tell us.” Jack demands.

Will shakes his head aggressively. “No, it. It wasn’t related to FBI business. It doesn’t matter, forget I said anything.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Will, you are currently affiliated with the FBI. Any matters pertaining to you at this time could affect our work; personal or not,” Jack says, crossing his arms. “So tell us what happened.”

Brian and Jimmy look just as nervous as Will would normally feel in this kind of situation. Beverly, however, looks at least half as upset as Will currently is. It’s as much her business being angry on his behalf as it is Jack’s business knowing about him and Hannibal’s private conversation, but some part of him is pleased she’s on his side.

“I’d really rather not,” Will says as calmly as he can, focusing on his breathing and ignoring the growing ache in his jaw.

He could really use Hannibal right about now. If he didn’t know better, he would think the man was keeping himself busy on purpose. He would think that, perhaps, Hannibal _wanted_ him to lash out; wanted him to let loose every stinging remark and scathing comment he always found himself holding back. What would happen, Will wonders, if he did just say anything and everything that came to mind? What would happen if he found Stammetts on his own time, like he did Hobbs and Trey, and killed him? What would happen if he found and killed every murderer, every rapist, every sadist he was sent after? Would they suspend him? Take his gun away and tell him to just go back to teaching? Would they lock him up in place of the criminals he’d extinguished? Would they kill him, too?

Or would they continue to stand and applaud him for his efforts?

“Jack? Can I, uh. Can I talk to you for a second?” Beverly says, clearly trying to defuse the situation. She looks afraid. Will would feel bad if he were capable of feeling anything but rage at the moment.

Jack’s gaze flits between her and Will, clearly sensing something but unable to comprehend just what. When Will continues to hold his ground, he reluctantly pushes off from the pharmacy counter and follows Beverly back to the storeroom. The door closes behind them and then it’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

He’s really going to have to be more careful.

∞

Will takes a single bite of the jambalaya and it’s like he’s in New Orleans again.

“I know I praise your cooking way too often, but you’ve seriously outdone yourself,” he says. “This is incredible.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Hannibal says with a soft smile, leaning over the table a bit to refill Will’s wine glass.. “We’ve both been so busy as of late. I remembered you said it was your favorite before, so I figured now was as good a time as any to prepare it for you.”

“I really appreciate it.”

It’s difficult not to speak around his spoon. As Hannibal just mentioned, they haven’t spoken much in the past week. There are so many things Will has to say, and he’s never been much of a talker. If he’s like this he can’t imagine what it must be like for Hannibal. Still, the other man miraculously keeps the chatting to a minimum while they eat. Will can feel his face heating up a bit at the thought that, perhaps, Hannibal is more than satisfied with his presence alone.

Will still isn’t sure how he should feel about… all of this. They’ve been dating, if you can even call it that, for just over a month now. However, they rarely see each other outside their weekly therapy sessions and work, where they have to pretend they’re just normal coworkers. The limited time they have alone together, unrelated to professional matters, is usually spent following a strict schedule: First they eat, of course, then they discuss current events and important happenings from the previous week, and then, if there’s time left, they have sex.

This schedule, unfortunately, doesn’t allow much space for Abigail. It infuriates Will to no end that he can’t find a reliable way to include just one of them into his daily life, let alone both. He would have to fight Alana to get Abigail out of Port Haven first if she wanted to come live with him. Alana wouldn’t just give Hannibal a free pass either, and then Abigail would still be too far away. Hannibal doesn’t have enough space for seven dogs and Will can’t imagine he would agree to house all of them, even if he did say he would do anything for Will. He doesn’t want to prove that declaration wrong, so he won’t bother asking. There’s no way Hannibal would agree to stay all the way out in Wolf Trap, either. The holidays are fast approaching and Will’s dreams of a found family get-together are dissolving just as quickly.

It’s odd to think that Christmas is coming up soon. He has no idea what a Christmas with Hannibal and Abigail would even look like. He hasn’t officially celebrated the holiday in years and the thought of Hannibal doing normal person things like hanging up Christmas lights outside his house, making intricate gingerbread houses, and flaunting his exceptional gift-giving skills is almost painful. He wants it so bad it hurts.

“Where are you now?” Hannibal asks with genuine curiosity.

“Oh, sorry. I was thinking about us.”

“You and I? Or us and Abigail?”

“Yes to both. I just…” Will heaves a sigh, takes another bite of spicy andouille sausage, rice, and shrimp to steel himself for what he’s about to say. “I’m just grateful you’re both in my life. I am. More than I have the words to express. But…”

Hannibal’s eyes are softer than he’s ever seen them before. He reaches across the table for Will’s free hand, lacing their fingers together. Will is surprised to feel the corners of his eyes pricking with tears at the gesture - he’s never been much of a crier.

“But,” he continues, willing the tears to stay where they are, “I just wish we had more time together. All three of us.”

His willpower alone isn’t enough. Hannibal’s unlacing their fingers and standing from his seat at the head of the table, and then he’s crouching at Will’s feet.

“I feel much the same. Do not lose hope, Will,” he says, reaching up and smoothing a thumb over the tear tracks on Will’s cheek. “It won’t always be this way. I can thin out my schedule, refer some of my patients to another psychiatrist. You can take a break, too. Jack Crawford does not own you, however much he believes he does…”

“You do,” Will interrupts, the words breaking free without his permission. It’s not something he’s even thought about, let alone something he would ever say out loud. He’s just about to explain away the ridiculous thing he’s just said when Hannibal’s mouth crashes against his.

Hannibal is quite literally stealing his breath away, but Will finds he doesn’t mind it one bit. He can’t mind much of anything when his lips are lovingly bitten or while his tongue is being sucked on. Hannibal is everywhere, surrounding him from all directions inside and out. Wrapped around him, on top of him, underneath him, inside of him. Will feels like his entire body is on fire with how much he wants this. Forget all the lavish meals, the insightful conversations, the promise of family -forget the rest of the entire world. He could stay like this forever; seeing, feeling, tasting, hearing, and breathing nothing but Hannibal until they’re dead. He can imagine the surprise on everyone’s faces when their bodies are found, still joined together in every way possible. Will they explain it away, like it was merely some accident? Or would they marvel at the way the deceased lovers kept such a deadly love a secret until the end?

_Love._

“I love you,” he says, breaking the kiss just long enough to get it out.

He’s beginning to think they really are going to continue until they die of thirst when Hannibal finally pulls back. He’s crying now as well. Will can’t stop himself from leaning up, pressing one more chaste kiss to his lips and then gently licking the salt from his face.

“Will. I-”

He’s interrupted by the ringing of Will’s phone.

Will ignores it, choosing instead to press dry kisses along the side of Hannibal’s neck. The phone rings again almost immediately. Still, he ignores it.

“You should answer, Will.”

“Mmmh.”

It rings a third time and Will still doesn’t care. Hannibal chuckles, then grips Will by the hair. He pulls him back despite Will’s protests when the phone rings a fourth time.

“Alright, okay. I’ll answer it...Hello?”

“Will! Thank god you answered! It’s Abigail, she’s-” Alana’s frantic voice fades out a bit as Will receives a call from Jack.

Hannibal, having straightened up immediately at the sound of Abigail’s name, quickly retrieves his own phone. “I’ll call Jack,” he whispers urgently, hurrying off to the kitchen.

“Wait, slow down. I got another call. What’s happened with Abigail?”

“She wasn’t here when I arrived for her appointment. At first I thought either you or Hannibal had just whisked her off again, but I asked the front desk and they said she was taken to the hospital!”

“What?” Will stands so quickly he nearly falls out of his chair. “What for?”

“I don’t know, they just said she was unresponsive, but that’s not the only problem! They said it was a visitor of hers who found her like that. Some guy they’d never seen before. He told them to call an ambulance and he went with-”

“Some guy? Who?!”

“Shit, Will, I don’t know but I called the hospital and she isn’t there! They said the ambulance never even showed up!”

“We need to go, Will,” says Hannibal as he comes around the corner. He snatches his suit jacket off the back of his chair and dons it just as quickly, looking the most stressed Will has ever seen him. “Now.”

“I don’t know what to do,” says Alana. “I called Jack and he said he’s looking into it but-”

“Alana, I think I know what’s happening but I need to go, okay? I’ll call you back later.”

He hangs up, stuffing the phone back inside his pocket. After he comes around the table, Hannibal helps him into his jacket. He grabs the keys to his Bentley and ushers Will out the front door, closing it behind them without bothering to lock it.

“It’s Stammetts, isn’t-”

“Stammets has-”

Their eyes meet for a second as they both pause, but neither makes an attempt to continue as they’re clearly on the same page. Hannibal peels out of his driveaway and heads off towards Port Haven at a speed that will undoubtedly draw the unwanted attention of the police should they encounter them. Will pities anyone who would try and stop them now.


	4. Connections II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, I was absolutely drowning in work and health stuff. Probably would've been at least another week or two if it weren't for my super helpful beta nomi–thank you so much by the way!

Will’s seat belt is off and he’s out of the car before Hannibal has completely stopped.

“Where’s Jack Crawford?” Will demands from the nearest group of officers on the scene.

While Will dashes off in the direction they indicate, Hannibal lags behind for a moment to examine the scene before him: Local police found the ambulance about halfway between Port Haven and the hospital from which it came. The ambulance is overturned, run right off the road into a shallow ditch. There are three bodies–two paramedics and the driver, all shot at close range. Stammetts clearly isn’t much concerned about the potential of being caught. He must have nowhere to go, Hannibal supposes. This is his last hurrah.

Seeing nothing useful in the empty stares of the corpses, Hannibal hurries in the direction Will was sent. He notices a small, dirty and wind-damaged sign which indicates the trail he’s following leads to a “McGrott Park.” There’s another, newer sign just next to it: “Closed for Construction.”

Hannibal would be lying if he said he didn’t have a passing familiarity with the area. Though he’s never visited this particular park, he’s journeyed through the surrounding forest on a few occasions. A previous victim of his used to stay in a small campground in the Northeast. He’s also buried a body or two here many years earlier, during the Ripper’s hibernation period. Some individuals just aren’t worth eating. He’s gotten better at picking those who are.

Just around the bend is a small, empty parking lot. Its perimeter is already blocked off with yellow police tape. Almost as soon as Hannibal ducks underneath it, a female officer attempts to block his path.

“Sir, this area is closed. I’ll need to see some ID to let you in.”

“I was called here by Crawford himself,” he explains, not bothering to hide his irritation, “I also drove here with the man he is currently arguing with.”

“That may be so, sir, but I still can’t let you in without seeing a driver’s license at the very least.”

Of course this would be the one time Hannibal didn’t have it with him. With Abigail in danger, his wallet was dead last on his list of priorities. Understanding that this officer is only being thorough and is not at fault for this setback doesn’t make it any easier for Hannibal to overlook her rudeness. She would know Hannibal was meant to be here if she would only let him close enough to get Jack’s attention.

“My apologies,” he says, coming to a decision, “but I simply don’t have time for this.”

Hannibal pushes right past her, ignoring her commands to stop. He moves faster as the protestations of the other officers rises to a clamor.

“Jack! Will!” he shouts, hoping he’s close enough for his voice to cut through their ongoing argument.

Will pauses mid-sentence and turns to look at him, surprise evident on his face. Jack follows his gaze, scowling at the sight.

“What in the hell is all this commotion?!” he demands.

“Mr. Crawford, sir, this man–”

“Dr. Lecter, we were waiting for you. Officers, don’t you have better things to do than harass a profiler?”

The officer who had just spoken freezes in his tracks, wide eyes flitting between Hannibal and Jack.

“I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t–”

“We don’t have time for this,” Will says, shaking his head. “I don’t have time for this. I’m staying here, Jack. I can’t explain to you why I need to do this, okay? I just do.”

Jack frowns down at him with a doubtful and perhaps even mistrustful look in his eyes.

“Hannibal’s here now. It’ll be fine, I swear.”

Hanniba’s unsure as to what they’re speaking of, but he agrees nonetheless. He won’t allow Will to do anything that could compromise himself or the investigation. Especially not while Abigail’s life is at stake.

Jack heaves a full-bodied sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand.

“Fine,” he relents.

Jack claps his hands together and orders everyone, including the lab techs collecting dirt from the asphalt, to disperse so that Will can do his thing.

“The rest of us are moving on,” Jack says to Hannibal as he comes up next to him, “We’ve got a report from one of the construction workers about a vehicle that was parked here overnight. Found what looks to be the same compost Stammets uses to grow his mushrooms and tire tracks pointing northeast.”

“But Will thinks he could still be here,” Hannibal says, realization creeping up on him slowly, like a lion on the prowl.

Jack nods.

“I don’t get it, but he’s convinced he can find him if he goes red. Keep a close eye on Will for me, make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble. If by some miracle you do run into Stammets, don’t try to engage. Get a safe distance away and call me _immediately_.”

“Understood.”

Jack orders a couple of the officers to guard the perimeter, then takes his leave. As soon as he’s out of sight, Hannibal cautiously approaches Will, already detecting the heavy spice scent of red alpha.

“What do you smell, Will?” Hannibal asks him, knowing he is unlikely to receive an answer.

Hannibal’s own sense of smell is strong even for an omega. Still, his is no match for Will’s at this moment. When red, alphas temporarily lose their ability to smell and clearly distinguish between every scent within a radius of eighty to one hundred and thirty meters, depending on the individual. In exchange, they gain the ability to hyperfocus on just one or two particular scents which they can then detect from up to an impressive kilometer or so. It just so happens that this particular section of the forest only stretches out about a kilometer and a half from the park. If Stammetts is still here, they will find him.

Will is eerily still. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted up towards the sky in concentration. Even the rise and fall of his chest is barely noticeable. When another full minute goes by without him moving, Hannibal moves to stand at his side, imitating Will’s position.

He can’t let himself go the way Will is. There’s no telling what he would do–what _they_ would do, if he did. There are too many witnesses, too many uncertainties. In such a high-stakes situation as this, one of them must remain lucid. One wrong step here could prove fatal.

Alas, Hannibal cannot smell anything out of the ordinary: just wet bark, mulch, and asphalt. Things one would expect to find in a forest park. With a restrained sigh, Hannibal opens his eyes. Rather immediately and with great surprise, he realizes something is wrong.

Will is gone.

So gone, in fact, that it seems as if he were never present in the first place. There’s no sight of him anywhere Hannibal looks. There’s also no clear indicator of which direction he went–no disturbed branches, no footprints, and nothing to listen for.

Hannibal considers asking their paltry guard if they’d seen where he went, but they aren’t even looking in his direction. The woman appears to be asleep while the man relieves himself behind a tree. Whatever information they may have is unlikely to be worth his precious time.

Will has left behind a faint scent trail, but the wind has already disturbed it. Hannibal does his best to follow, ignoring the way it snakes left and right in favor of moving forward. Will would have no reason to stray from the path he set for himself.

He’s beginning to believe he may not find Will within the hour when a gunshot cuts through the quiet, chilly air. It takes nearly all of Hannibal’s self restraint to avoid letting his mind go blank and his eyes turn gold. He doesn’t have enough left to stop himself from dashing towards the sound, all caution thrown to the wind.

Hannibal doesn’t normally chase his prey through the woods. He keeps active despite his busy schedule, so it’s not a question of ability but one of preference and practicality. Running can be dangerous even for the predator–if a tiger breaks a toe during a chase, it cannot hunt. It cannot eat. It cannot flee from those who would cushion their feet on its pelt.

He stops to rest a bit, breathing heavily as he leans against a solid maple tree. He could keep going but he’s tired, and he doesn’t want to use all of his energy at once. It’s worrying that there was only a single gunshot. He refuses to think over the implications too much, but if Will needs his help, he will need to keep his strength up. An exhausted, unarmed and largely unprepared man cannot compete with a gun.

Only, it seems he will have to anyways.

There’s an arm around his neck then–tight, but not enough to cut off his circulation. Stammetts is bleeding, he realizes, as the man raises his undamaged arm to hold the gun to the back of Hannibal’s head.

“Call him off,” Stammets hisses through his teeth.

“If by ‘him’ you mean Will, I am afraid I cannot do that. He is not a dog.”

“I don’t understand,” Stammets says, ignoring him, “She said he understood me. Why doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he see? You walk into a field of mycelium, they

know you're there. They know you are there!”

His captor’s arm is shaking. Enough that Hannibal is beginning to suspect he may drop the gun before he can fire it, if he plans to. It should be easy to break away–even if Stammetts wasn’t wounded, Hannibal is faster and could easily overpower the beta without breaking a sweat. He doesn’t plan on trying it, though.

Will approaches just as silently as he disappeared earlier. He must have ran much further than Hannibal, and yet his breathing is inaudible. His footsteps are soft and measured and even his scent appears dulled somehow. The only noticeable aspect of the monster which skulks in the shadows of beta dreams is his eyes, which are so red now they appear to be glowing. Were it not for the way Stammets pivots erratically on the spot, dragging Hannibal around with him, he would have snuck right up on them.

Remarkable.

“Their spores reach for you when you pass by,” Stammets says, panic evident in his voice. “I know who you’re reaching for! You should have let me plant her. You would have found her in a field where she could finally reach back!”

With every step forward Will takes, Hannibal is dragged backwards by one. Despite a few minutes of repetition and protests interspersed with fungal trivia from Stammetts, Will’s demeanor doesn’t change. He doesn’t look any closer to pouncing than he did when he first emerged. No, there’s caution in his movements–something even Hannibal considered antithetical to this state of mind.

Hannibal could very well be witnessing a facet of the alpha nature which has never before been seen. How unfortunate it is that it is taking place under increasingly tiresome circumstances.

They move almost like clockwork. Will takes a step between 1.5 and 2 seconds after Stammetts has. In turn, he moves almost as soon as Will does. It’s easy to time the harsh kick Hannibal delivers to his captor’s knee just as he bends it, causing him to stumble backwards and give Hannibal an opening. It’s even easier to grab the gun as he drops it, effectively reversing their positions.

“No! No, no no…!” Stammets pleads.

“What do you think, Will?” Hannibal asks with great mirth, curious now if some part of Will can understand him, “What should we do with him?”

Will finally looks up from his prey, casting his empty stare onto Hannibal instead. Perhaps not entirely empty, as Hannibal catches what appears to be a spark of recognition in his eyes. Will doesn’t break eye contact as his mouth stretches into a deadly grin.

Hannibal fires a single shot at Stammetts’ right leg. He cries out in pain and stumbles forward. Hannibal casts the gun aside, then gives Stammetts a shove and watches as Will lunges at him and buries his teeth in his throat.

It’s not a killing blow, but it’s nothing like the passionate love bites Hannibal has received from the alpha, either. Stammetts howls in agony while Will struggles momentarily to remove a chunk of flesh. He goes quiet not long after the second bite, but Will isn’t finished. He’s digging his fingers like claws through the holes he’s made, ripping and tearing until he’s nearly decapitated the body.

It’s a beautiful sight, truly, but it will be impossible for the FBI to excuse if it goes much further.

Hannibal crouches next to Will, careful not to invade his space. He carefully rests a hand on Will’s shoulder and gives it a shake like he’s trying to wake him from an unpleasant dream.

“That’s enough, Will.”

No response. No indication Will heard him, even. Decapitation by hand does appear to be a rather noisy method of corpse mutilation.

“Will,” Hannibal tries once more, “Where is Abigail?”

Will freezes, his muscles jerking to a stop like his neurons just pulled the emergency brake. He turns to look at Hannibal, only not really, because he appears to be looking right through him. It’s quiet for a moment while Hannibal waits, and then Will shoots to his feet and dashes off in the direction from which he came, heavy footfalls no longer silent.

Hannibal takes a couple seconds to dust himself off before following at a leisurely pace. He’s certain Will would not forget and leave Abigail even while red if she were still in danger.

Indeed, she appears more or less whole when Hannibal catches sight of her in Will’s arms.

“Is she alright?” Hannibal asks, moving to help Will dust off the horrid-smelling dirt and compost from her.

“She’s alive. Breathing just fine, but I can’t wake her up,” Will says, no longer red save for the blood soaking through his clothes. His voice is calm but his face and posture betray his distress.

“She’s not a diabetic. She was fine just a few hours ago. Why won’t she wake up?”

Hannibal gently coaxes Will’s hand out of the way so he can check her pulse. It’s sluggish–not enough to be an immediate concern, but certainly slower than it should be. She feels heated as well. Hannibal would need a thermometer to be certain, but she may have a fever.

“...Hannibal?”

Will’s voice is grave. Hannibal has a feeling he’s concerned about something else now. This suspicion is confirmed when Will speaks again.

“What...what happened?”

Hannibal frowns at him. Surely he’s not forgotten everything?

“Why am I...ah!” Will hisses through his teeth and clutches at his left shoulder. “Wh-why am I bleeding? Where’s Stammetts?”

Hannibal no longer has to wonder about that initial gunshot. All of the excitement he felt earlier is now tainted with the realization that Will could very well have died, that Abigail still could, if the cause of her unconsciousness isn’t quickly dealt with. On the positive side of things, this wound Stammetts inflicted could be a boon to Will’s defense.

“I need to call Jack,” Hannibal says, gently lowering Abigail back to the ground so he can do so. “When he arrives, Will, I will tell him the truth.”

Will swallows heavily. He looks down at his blood-soaked clothing in shame and apprehension Hannibal could easily alleviate, if he wanted. Now is simply not the time.

“Dr. Lecter, is some–”

“Stammetts is dead,” Hannibal announces, cutting straight to the chase. “Abigail is alive but unresponsive. We need medics.”

He glances over at Will, who appears to be considering removing his own arm.

“For Will as well,” he adds.

∞

It’s quite some time before Hannibal is finally able to leave FBI headquarters.

Even with Will’s injury (just a graze apparently, but an injury nonetheless), Abigail’s predicament, and Hannibal’s own testimony, the higher-ups are far from happy to see the damage done to their hard-won mushroom farmer. Perhaps the least happy of all has been Kade Prurnell. Despite how difficult Jack can be at times, Hannibal finds he much prefers dealing with him over the frigid and self-absorbed woman who has held him hostage only to make him repeat himself for nearly three hours. She seems almost desperate to get Hannibal to say something she could construe as vilifying Will in some way for reasons he doesn’t care to know.

The only thing he does care about at the moment is the fact that they now know the reason for Abigail’s condition: dangerously high levels of Venaxadrome–a powerful sedative and libido enhancer containing distilled alpha venom–in her bloodstream. Were he not trapped, he would have left for the hospital as soon as he received the text from Alana.

She’s still there when he arrives around 10:30pm; as is Will. While the latter is fast asleep in his chair, head slumped towards Abigail and holding her hand, the former is pacing quietly but worriedly across the small room in her stockings.

Alana catches sight of Hannibal as she makes another turn, pausing when she recognizes him. She glances at the sleeping individuals then gives him a look and raises her pointer finger up to her lips in a request Hannibal has already acquiesced to. Still, he nods his head and steps back out of the room while she retrieves her shoes from where they sit against the wall. She joins him out in the hallway a minute later.

“I have half a mind to bring charges against them for this.”

“Do we know how it happened?” Hannibal asks.

“Stammetts had an alias. Wasn’t even that far removed from his real identity. They just let him waltz right in there and…”

“What alias?”

Alana sighs, leaning back against the wall and crossing her arms.

“Plastic surgeon,” she says, “An acquaintance of Will Graham’s, there on a favor for him. He wanted to see Abigail’s scar.”

To think that a psychiatric facility, a supposedly safe space for the psychically and mentally abused, would welcome a wanted man through its doors so easily should be astounding. Only, this sort of thing is rather par for the course these days. Mental patients, regardless of what ails them, are generally considered “lesser” than the neurotypical population. The same goes for the elderly in old folk’s homes, among others.

“She trusted the institution,” Hannibal suggests, “Why would they let such a man inside if he wasn’t safe?”

“One could argue now that the institution itself isn’t safe,” says Alana.

Hannibal agrees.

“Would you have her moved someplace else?” He asks, sensing a potential opening.

“I don’t know,” Alana says with a shake of her head, “We could hire security, maybe. She’s an adult now so any final decision would be hers.”

There it is–the opening is small, but it might just be enough.

“Would her decision be respected if she did end up choosing a place for herself?”

“Depends,” says Alana with a look of mild suspicion, “What are you thinking?”

Hannibal takes a couple seconds to weigh the pros and cons of being forward with her. While the pros are mostly long-term ones, the cons are rather the opposite. His decision is fairly simple.

“I was thinking either Will or myself could take her in for the time being.”

Alana closes her eyes and nods slowly.

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“You aren’t happy about it.”

“You know my position on that matter–both of you do. I won’t bother repeating it.

I will tell you my position on another matter, though–if you don’t mind me asking a rather personal question?”

“...Yes?”

“What’s going on between you and Will? And don’t say nothing, because there is clearly something.”

“Would you prefer a comforting lie, or the uncomfortable truth?”

“It’s not about my comfort, Hannibal. It’s about what’s best for–”

“You clearly have some preconception in your head, so how about you get that out and I’ll tell you if it’s true or not,” Hannibal says, feeling uncharacteristically aggressive towards his former mentee.

Alana raises both eyebrows at his tone.

“He’s your patient, Hannibal–”

“Not officially.”

“ _Officially_ or not–Hannibal, I don’t understand. Please help me understand this.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“At least try?”

“I cannot help you understand what I have yet to understand myself.”

“If you can’t define your relationship, that’s all the more reason you should take a step back.”

“All I can say is that I am doing what’s best for us: Will, Abigail, and myself,” Hannibal says, “You may disagree, of course, but only as an outsider. The three of us share things, exchange words, show parts of ourselves we cannot show to anyone else. Things you are not privy to.”

“Couldn’t I be?”

“Not to all of them; not unless we let you. We are all guilty of hiding the darkest parts of ourselves deep within, where the light of the world cannot reach. This world, though bright, is not often a friendly place. It is better to hide the wound than to show it off, let your weakness be known for all to take advantage of.”

Alana is silent for a while, visibly mulling over Hannibal’s words.

“Group therapy, then?” she says with a sardonic smile.

“Pardon?”

“Will told me to think of it as group therapy. Is that what’s going on here?”

“Hmmm...I suppose I do find our interactions therapeutic. Though the type of therapy differs depending on the mood and whether or not Abigail is present.”

Alana huffs out a startled but not uncomfortable laugh.

“Yeah, okay, too much information,” she says, smiling and shaking her head. “I assume a referral is out of the question, then?”

Hannibal pretends to mull it over for the sake of camaraderie.

“I fear that _I_ would be out of the question if I even suggested such a thing.”

“Alphas,” Alana mutters with a playful roll of her eyes.

Both of them turn their attention towards Abigail’s hospital room at the sound of the girl’s hushed voice.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly as Alana and Hannibal re-enter the room, “I didn’t mean to wake you up but it’s too hot under these sheets and I had a really bad itch on my left arm...”

“No, no it’s fine,” Will says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I’m glad you’re awake–sleeping with you was great but I think, um, getting to be awake with you is better. That...uh. That came out really weird so let’s pretend I stopped talking after ‘it’s fine’, shall we?”

Abigail laughs, waving it off.

“Hey guys,” she says to their onlookers, then, “You always like this when you first wake up?”

“I’m not usually a human being when I first wake up, so. Progress has been made, I think.”

“How’s our sleeping beauty?” Hannibal asks as he comes up to her bedside.

“Yeah, how are you? You went through quite an ordeal.” Alana says.

“Me or Will?” Abigail asks with a grin.

Laughter echoes throughout the room for a moment.

“Both, actually,” Hannibal says, still smiling, “You both fit the bill.”

He doesn’t miss the way Will’s cheeks heat up, nor the way his eyes hover over Hannibal’s mouth for just a second too long before moving back up. Hannibal can’t possibly find anything more endearing than the fact that Will reacts this way no matter how many times he calls him beautiful.

“I feel a bit, uh, weird...but I’m alright,” says Abigail.

“Yeah, that would be the venom,” says Alana, “It’ll pass soon enough.”

“Would you like to talk about what happened?” Hannibal asks, moving to sit on the edge of the hospital bed.

“Well…” Abigail heaves a tired sigh. “Front desk told me a friend of Will’s was there–”

“ _Definitely_ not a friend,” Will grumbles.

“Yeah, I see that now. Anyways, it was like five thirty and he came in through the front door like a normal person, so I figured ‘why not’ and let him in. ‘Cept as soon as I took off my scarf and kinda maybe closed the door he had a needle in my neck. Don’t remember much after that. What happened after? Was he arrested?”

No one says anything.

Alana only knows the gist of the situation and Will is predictably reluctant. Hannibal is the one who could best explain and they all know it. Still, he looks towards Will expectantly. He wouldn’t mind doing the explaining, but he wants to hear what Will says. Has he remembered anything about the incident? Has he truly forgotten what he did, or is he just too afraid to face it? Perhaps he’s more concerned about Hannibal’s actions than his own, and doesn’t want to face those?

“...Guys? What’s wrong?”

Finally, Will clears his throat, shooting Hannibal an indignant look before speaking.

“Stammetts is dead.”

Abigail is quiet for a moment as her eyes rove over him. Hannibal disguises his smile behind a cough when her gaze lingers over Will’s injured shoulder for just a second too long to be a coincidence.

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

Hannibal can practically smell the shock and concern radiating from behind him. Apparently, Jack must have forgotten to fill Alana in on that particular detail. Perhaps intentionally, as Alana has been against Will’s involvement with the Bureau since Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

“...Yes,” Will says reluctantly.

Abigail nods, then, “Did you have to?”

“Yes,” says Will, resolute this time.

Interesting.

Abigail takes a breath, preparing to speak again, but she turns to look at Alana when the older woman sighs, and says nothing. Hannibal gives her a curious look, raising his brows when Abigail shakes her head quickly enough that he would surely miss it if he had blinked.

_Not in front of her._

∞

Jack calls the three of them–Will, Alana, and Hannibal–to his office at seven thirty the next morning. Hannibal makes sure to bring a particularly potent coffee brew for Will, who will undoubtedly need an extra kick to get him going this early. It’s dosed, of course–if Will’s body isn’t yet addicted to his venom, it will be soon enough. He’ll start craving it then.

“I’m just going to jump straight to the point, if you all don’t mind,” Jack says immediately after he’s closed his office door, “We’ve new evidence from a confirmed witness on the Minnesota Shrike case.”

Will freezes with his coffee halfway raised, glaring at Jack in disbelief. Hannibal uncrosses his legs and leans forward like he’s hearing a particularly scandalous secret for the first time. In reality, he’s known. The timing of this witness’s emergence is ...unfortunate. It’s not something any of them could have planned for, though. Best to play it safe.

“The Shrike case? Are we so concerned about new evidence for a closed case that we need to meet like this, especially after what happened yesterday?”

Alana must sense it as well. Her tone betrays none of her distress, but Hannibal can smell it. Though not as close to her as Will or himself, Alana is rather fond of Abigail.

“It’s because of what happened yesterday that I didn’t call you in until this morning. Our witness claims to have seen Abigail Hobbs and her father at not one but three different college campuses –ones from which three of the victims disappeared.”

“You’ve verified this?” Will asks. “We do get a lot of–”

“Oh, it’s good,” Jack interrupts, “It’s been confirmed that our witness was present at the prospective student tours given at all three universities.”

Hannibal nods somberly. He’s reluctant to accept the possibility of Abigail being charged as an accomplice to her father, but he’s also aware there’s nothing to be done about it at the moment.

“This is absurd,” Will says, fingers tight around his thermos, “Of course Hobbs went with her! The entire premise of his murder spree was that he didn’t want Abigail to leave–”

“But surely if her father accompanied her to every campus, and a girl went missing every time, she would eventually realize what was going on, right? What you don’t seem to be taking into account is the possibility that Abigail acted as the lure. You’re a fisherman, Will. You have to put aside your bias and admit she would make a good lure.”

Will surprises all of them–especially Alana, who nearly jumps out of her seat–by responding with a low, savage growl.

 _“Excuse me?”_ Jack says, clearly offended.

He remains statue-still and unblinking while whatever menace has replaced Will slowly stands from his seat. He looks up at him, patiently awaiting whatever he plans on doing next. Will clearly chooses not to follow through with whatever his face had been broadcasting, though, as he swiftly exits the room, slamming the door behind him.

Hannibal waits about three seconds before excusing himself and following after him.

Thankfully, Will hasn’t gone far–he’s just around the corner, resting his forehead and a trembling fist against the wall.

“Will.”

Will’s nostrils flare and his lips curl back from his teeth, but he doesn’t otherwise react to the sound of his name.

Reasonably certain Will won’t attack him, Hannibal approaches him as he would any other day. As he comes closer, he notices that it isn’t just Will’s fist that’s trembling, but the entirety of him. His bottom lip is also bleeding sluggishly. It’s hard for Hannibal to tear his eyes away from it.

“Will,” he says again, softer this time.

Not waiting for a response, he grips Will by the shoulder. Will flinches hard but doesn’t resist as Hannibal gently pulls him away from the wall to face him. As expected, he’s bitten right through his lip. Hannibal reaches up, cradling the side of Will’s face and thumbing at his lip. There’s a sharp intake of breath as Hannibal leans in and presses a soft kiss to the wound. Will breaks the kiss almost instantaneously.

“Wha–what are you doing?” Will hisses through his teeth, “We can’t do this here!”

“No one’s looking,” Hannibal murmurs before leaning back in.

Despite his protestations, Will doesn’t fight the second kiss. Hannibal licks the blood from his bottom lip and Will kisses right back, chases Hannibal’s tongue with his own. As much as Hannibal personally enjoys this wet, hungry kiss, his main reason for initiating it is in fact a functional one. Something in omega saliva is known to have subtle calming properties. What’s especially strange is the fact that it only seems to affect alphas, and only during periods of heightened aggression.

Even if it weren’t for that mysterious trick of biology, Will seems too focused on the kiss to pay much attention to anything else. He’s taken control of the kiss entirely, no reluctance left in him. Hannibal feels more than hears the growl Will makes as he roughly pushes Hannibal up against the wall. He doesn’t much care if someone does end up spotting them, but it’s amusing to see just how little Will cares for his own excuses.

Will breaks the kiss as one of his arms snakes up Hannibal’s back and comes to rest at the base of his neck.

“Mine?” He asks between panting breaths.

Hannibal’s stomach nearly ejects itself out of his throat before he can answer, as Will’s hand climbs just a bit higher to stroke at his nape. Of the things Hannibal was expecting, this motion was not one. He quickly reminds himself that alphas tend to do this regardless of their partner’s gender. His surprise and apprehension fade as he accepts this doesn’t necessarily mean that Will is aware.

With that aside, it feels wonderful. He’s so absorbed in the pleasure of the repeated motion that he forgets Will technically asked him a question. He can’t help a small moan when Will digs his nails in and reminds him just a second later.

“Mine?”

He could answer as Will wants. It’s something Hannibal has told him several times already, afterall. He could, and yet Hannibal chooses to give him a small smile and turn his head to the side in playful defiance. It isn’t a very wise choice.

Taking him completely off guard, Will unsheathes his fangs and sinks them into his neck before he can react.

“Yours,” Hannibal sputters. “Yours!”

But Will doesn’t release him. His fangs feel like they’re sinking in deeper with every second that passes, much to Hannibal’s dismay. His weak attempts to pull Will away are unsuccessful and he’s only getting weaker.

Finally, Will pulls away. If he weren’t holding him up, Hannibal would have ended up falling to the floor with the excessive amount of venom he’s been injected with.

“This is unfair,” Hannibal mumbles, “Unreasonable. Entirely inappropriate.”

Even to his own ears, it sounds wrong somehow. Like the words are coming through some sort of filter. He can’t do much else other than be dragged over to the nearest bench where he’s carefully deposited.

“Wait here,” Will orders.

Hannibal tries to nod, but his head isn’t moving the way he wants it to. He’s not sure it’s moving at all. Everything is too warm, too blurred. He’s uncomfortably aware that there’s a slowly growing wet spot on his briefs, but he isn’t aware of much else. It may have been minutes or hours before the vague shape of a person comes into view. Whoever it is appears to be sideways (or is that him?) and leans over as if to better inspect him. He thinks they’re saying something but he can’t understand any of it. Someone else joins them, making strange gestures he can’t interpret.

“It’s okay, I’ve got him,” Will says, voice cutting through the haze. “Come on, Hannibal. Let’s get you to a doctor.”

Doctor?

 _I am a doctor_ , is what Hannibal tries to say, but it just comes out as a groan. He still doesn’t need a doctor. A doctor will give him pills he already takes and advice he already knows and maybe call someone to help but Hannibal doesn’t want just _someone._ He wants, no, he _needs_ Will and Will only. Will knows this, so why is he no longer touching him? Where are they, even? Everything is so warm it hurts.

“I know, I know,” Will says, teasing Hannibal with a cool brush of his hand across his overheated cheek, “I’m really sorry, okay? Don’t know what the hell got into me, but I wasn’t thinking.”

Hannibal tries to tell Will to at least keep his hand there, but the words don’t come. His throat feels dried out and his tongue sits heavy and immobile against the floor of his mouth. He’s closed his eyes at some point as well, so there’s really no way of communicating what he needs. He can only hope Will understands.

He’s nearly fallen asleep when Will reaches for him again, this time from the opposite direction.

“Are you still with me?” Will asks as he pulls him out of the car.

Hannibal hadn’t even felt the motion of the vehicle. He begins to panic when what he can see of the world flips over, expecting to hit the ground face-first. Will’s arms are tight around him, though, and he remains more or less where he is.

“Okay, yeah, I fucked up. I’ll just…”

The world shifts again, only this time Hannibal is relieved at the change in position. Even as he is now, he can tell he’s being carried from the pressure and positioning of Will’s arms.

“Either I’m stronger than I thought I was or you weigh less than you look,” Will says, “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I don’t mean any offense by that.”

He would like to tell Will to keep talking if he could. His voice and touch are the only things keeping Hannibal grounded in reality–if Will were to drop him now and go quiet, he would probably float away like dandelion seeds in the wind.

“I’m taking you to bed, okay?”

Hannibal is gladly anticipating the return to an unmoving surface as much as he is the prospect of more touching. While nice at first, Will’s jostling and uneven grip combined with the effects of his venom are beginning to make him nauseous. The ascent up the stairs is misery for both of them if Will’s breathing is any indication.

Something about the room (his, surely?) Will carries him into feels distinctly more solid than anywhere else so far. He still can’t see clearly, but he can actually identify various blurry objects in the room: dresser, suit of armor, bed. Hannibal can’t recall having ever been so relieved to (sort of) see his bed.

Will finally sets him down on the edge of it, not even trying to help him sit up. He lets Hannibal’s limp upper body fall back against the plush covers and crouches down to remove his shoes and socks before moving out of Hannibal’s limited field of view. For a second, Hannibal fears he means only to tuck him into bed like a child for an early morning nap. This fear is assuaged when Will returns to remove the rest of his clothing, having already stripped himself naked.

The sight and proximity of Will’s bare skin gives Hannibal an unexpected burst of energy. He surges forward and captures Will’s mouth in a desperate, seeking kiss. Will flinches back, confounding him by breaking the kiss and pressing him back to the bed again, only to climb on top of him.

“We’re not doing that,” Will says, sounding out of breath.

‘Oh, my apologies’, Hannibal tries to say, ‘Despite the overbearing implications of your actions, I really shouldn’t have assumed.’

What comes out instead is an affronted, guttural growl–one Will obviously misunderstands.

“Oh,” he says, sitting back on his heels, “Do you want me to stop?”

Hannibal makes a valiant attempt to shake his head ‘no,’ but Will looks like he’s considering ignoring it anyways. The few seconds that pass while Will scrutinizes him are nearly unbearable. So unbearable, in fact, that he sobs in relief when Will leans over him again and carefully lowers himself until he’s lying on top of him. The weight of Will pressing him into the mattress is everything Hannibal wanted and everything he never knew he needed.

“We’re just going to stay like this for now, okay? At least until the venom wears off,” says Will, “I know you want to do more. I can’t tell how much of that is just you and how much of it is actually me, though. So we’re just going to wait.”

He’s been subtly pushing Will to follow his instincts for over a month now, and yet when he finally begins to do so, he stops halfway through. Hannibal acknowledges the logic in Will’s argument, but that doesn’t stop him from being frustrated with the situation. He didn’t care about anyone’s opinions when he bit Hannibal at headquarters, least of all Hannibal’s. Why does he care now?

“You look like you want to kill me,” Will says with great amusement, “I assume that means you’re coming back.”

Hannibal hums, too tired to waste time trying to speak again when he knows he can’t yet. His frustration only grows the longer he is unable to communicate properly, but there is something to be said for Will’s impressive self-restraint. For a moment, he lets himself imagine reversing their positions. If he were the one with the biological advantages, he wouldn’t be able to resist this opportunity to be cruel and get away with it.

Strange as he is for an alpha, it’s easy to picture Will as a soft, desperate omega shivering and mewling in his bed, too intoxicated to do anything but wait and accept whatever Hannibal thinks he deserves. It’s just as easy to see himself above Will the way Will currently is above him–only Hannibal would hover an inch or so above him, just close enough for Will to feel the heat radiating from him and nothing else. He’d wait until Will was close to breaking before he touched him: only a single finger, and only for a second. If Will could be quiet, perhaps he’d touch him again. Two fingers could become three or four, a graze of the shoulder could become a–

A kiss on the neck.

That’s what Will is currently doing. He’s kissing the side of Hannibal’s neck. It’s totally chaste, dry and quick. Just a small press of his lips against Hannibal’s skin, then withdrawal. One more, two more, three. The third one lasts just a second longer, and then Will pulls back to look at him. Smiles.

That smile flips itself upside down right around the same time Hannibal notices he’s crying.

“Hey…”

Will presses his forehead against Hannibal’s.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright.”

Hannibal tries to tell Will he’s got the wrong idea entirely, and that he should really just fuck him already, but all he can get out is a pathetic whine.

“It’ll be over soon, I promise. We can do whatever you want then. We can stay in bed all day if you want, okay?”

Hannibal closes his eyes. He does his best to ignore the sensation of Will’s thumb brushing his damp eyelashes, lest he lose himself in it.

Even with the way he is now, Will should have no trouble understanding him. His responses aren’t manufactured exactly, but Hannibal believes they are stemming from his inability to frame the two of them as anything but victim and perpetrator in this scenario. Will is ashamed of his alphan instincts, ashamed of himself for succumbing to them so easily and for enjoying the freedom doing so provided him. He is guilty, so he is the perpetrator. Despite his obvious willingness, Hannibal must be the victim.

That’s why he stopped.

One step forward, two steps backward.

∞

Hannibal is not one to nap.

It’s disorienting to wake at any odd hour of the day to continue as though one hadn’t just been asleep. Schedules are interrupted and important things are often forgotten. No matter how little he gets some nights, Hannibal doesn’t sleep during the day, so why has he woken in his own bed at...12:17PM?

“...He’s fine, just sleeping. No, no. Yeah, we’ll be there. See you soon. Bye.”

Will?

Hannibal throws back the cover as Will comes into view, cell phone in hand.

“Good morning,” he says, “You feeling okay?”

“No different than usual. Why? What’s happened?”

Will comes to sit on the edge of the bed, avoiding eye contact all the while. He clears his throat once, then opens his mouth as if to speak, but gives a full-bodied, exasperated sigh instead.

“Will? Would you care to explain why we’re in my bedroom at a time I should be meeting with my second client?”

“Well...you fell asleep after, uh, I bit you. I didn’t want to wake you up in case you weren’t yourself yet, and you just looked really comfortable, so. Yeah.”

Hannibal feels along the side of his neck with his left hand. Sure enough, there are two barely noticeable pinpricks. Now he remembers.

“You brought me home,” he says. “And I fell asleep.”

“Yeah,” Will says.

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. That’s it.”

“Nothing else of note occurred?”

“I didn’t do anything besides undress you and lie on top of you until you fell asleep. That’s it, Hannibal, I swear.”

“No need to get all worked up, Will. I was merely curious,” Hannibal explains, “I wouldn’t mind even if you had taken advantage of me.”

Will finally looks him in the eyes at that, surprise and worry fighting for control of his face. He studies Hannibal intently for several minutes before speaking.

“You really should,” he says, tone dark and self-admonishing.

Hannibal doesn’t attempt to argue. Instead, he inquires as to where the two of them are meant to be soon, according to the last few words exchanged during that phone call.

Of all the locations Will could have named, ‘Back to Minnesota, with Abigail’ is far from what he expected.

∞

_CANNIBALS_

The sight they’re greeted with upon reaching the Hobbs home is not a very welcoming one.

Alana had called Will earlier to inform him that Abigail had agreed to revisit her family home in an attempt to also revisit the events of the day her father was caught literally red-handed. Jack wanted Abigail formally questioned on her own involvement in the murders, but Will and Alana managed to talk him into giving her the chance to provide additional details she may have forgotten about the incident. Namely, those relating to the mysterious caller Will correctly believes warned Hobbs they were coming.

“Well, let’s clean this up,” Alana says.

The four of them gather cleaning supplies from inside the house. The others seem perfectly capable of scrubbing the angry red scrawl away, and Hannibal would prefer not to get any of it on his clothes, so he relegates himself to the role of the water carrier. Whenever the water in the bucket turns full red, he returns it to the kitchen to refill it with fresh water. As the others are scrubbing quite furiously, the work is finished quickly and Hannibal dumps the bucket one last time before grabbing something for them to clean their hands with.

“Phew!” Abigail bounces to her feet, taking the proffered dish rag to wipe her hands on.

They pass it around before making their way to the front of the house.

“I was sort of expecting a body outline in chalk or tape,” says Abigail as they reach the front porch.

“They only do that if you’re still alive and taken to the hospital before they finish the crime scene,” Will explains.

“Goodbye mom.”

Hannibal hesitates just outside the door for a moment, suddenly aware that they’re being watched. He inhales as deeply as he can, disguising the action by leaning down and straightening a pant leg.

A young, male beta. Curious.

“If you ever want to go, you just have to say so and we will go,” Alana says as Hannibal quietly closes the door behind him.

“Go where?” Abigail asks, glancing at Hannibal rather conspicuously, “Back to Port Haven?”

“For now,” says Alana, who clearly didn’t miss the hint.

It’s highly unlikely Jack would allow Will or himself to house her even temporarily with the amount of suspicion hanging over her. Though no one has told her as much, Hannibal has no doubt Abigail is aware of the noose slowly tightening around her neck. He’s not sure if it’s because she feels emboldened after her brush with death or what exactly, but she doesn’t seem too worried about it. Perhaps the guilt she feels is still so powerful that she believes she deserves whatever comes to her, and so is merely living life as best she can until she no longer has her freedom.

“They took all the pictures,” Abigail says, noticing the emptiness of the kitchen.

Not just the kitchen, in fact. Nearly every trace of the family that once lived here is gone. All that remains is the furniture, giving the home the appearance of one belonging in the pages of _Better Homes and Gardens_.

“Is that where all my blood was?”

Abigail tilts her head at the floor.

“Yes,” says Will.

It’s quiet for a few minutes as they settle into the living room. Hannibal is surprised when Will chooses the rocking chair instead of the sofa where he and Alana sit. His whole demeanor has been different since they first set foot in Minnesota yesterday. It’s not dissimilar to the way he was when they were here last. Hannibal can’t help but wonder if it’s the location or if it’s the mindset he’s put himself in which is causing this change.

“Are you doing it now?” Abigail asks after clearing her throat, “Thinking about killing? Thinking the way my dad did?”

“...Yeah,” Will mutters.

“What does it feel like? To be him?”

“It feels like I’m talking to his shadow suspended on dust.”

“You think you knew him?”

“I tried to know him. I still try.”

“Even after you killed him?”

“Maybe even because I killed him.”

Alana studies Will intensely, probably considering asking Jack to give him a break again. As long as Will keeps solving cases, that will never happen. Eventually he’ll either grow tired of inviting killers into his head and defy Jack’s wishes, or he’ll grow to appreciate them and do something to force the FBI to let him go. Hannibal doesn’t mind the former, but he’s hoping for the latter.

“No wonder you have nightmares…” Abigail mutters, but there’s no pity in her tone.

“We should discuss _your_ nightmare,” Hannibal says.

“The attacks on you and your mother, they were different,” Will says, “Desperate. Your dad knew he was out of time. Someone told him we were coming.”

“The man on the phone?”

Clever girl.

“It was a blocked call. Did you recognize his voice?”

“I had never heard it before,” Abigail says with a small, almost imperceptible glance at Hannibal.

Very clever. Perhaps too clever, in fact. Hannibal had accepted the possibility of their outing becoming dangerous for him, but if Abigail were to out him in front of Will and Alana, he would not be left with many options. He would greatly prefer not to be forced to harm anyone in the group if at all possible.

“Was there anybody new in your father’s life?” Alana asks, “Someone you met or someone he talked about?”

Abigail shakes her head “no.”

“He may have been contacted by another serial killer. A copycat,” Will says.

“Someone who’s still out there,” Abigail says.

Will nods.

“Can you catch somebody’s crazy?”

“Folie a deux,” Alana says.

“What?”

“A French psychiatric term. ‘Madness shared by two.’”

“One can not be delusional if the belief in question is accepted as ordinary by others in that person’s culture or subculture. Or family,” Hannibal explains.

“My dad didn’t seem delusional,” Abigail says,”He was a perfectionist. After he skinned a deer, he would pluck the loose hair. Most people use a torch. Dad would remove all the hair by hand. He wanted to make sure he got every one of them.”

“Your dad left almost no evidence,” says Will, “Even a month later, the FBI doesn’t have much of anything.”

“Is that why we’re here?” asks Abigail, “To find more evidence?”

“It was one of many considerations,” says Hannibal.

“Oh, I know! Let’s reenact the crime!”

Abigail hops to her feet - for a moment, it’s easy to see her as a young girl excited to play a casual game with her family in their cozy home.

“You be my dad. You be my mom,” Abigail says to Will and Alana respectively, then to Hannibal, “And you be the man on the phone.”

Hannibal is rather uncharacteristically caught off guard by that, despite his suspicion that Abigail knew more about him than she was letting on. He’s not sure how to respond, so he’s forced to do his best to return the steely, nonchalant stare Abigail is giving him. If she wanted to out him, she would have done so then and there. It seems more likely she is merely letting Hannibal know that she holds some power over him now that she knows for certain that he’s dangerous. It’s a smart move Hannibal could be genuinely proud of if it were directed at someone other than himself.

“We wanted you to come home to help you leave home behind,” Alana says.

“You’re never going to find any of those girls, you know.”

“Why do you say that?” Will asks.

“He’d honor every part of them. Made plumber’s putty out of elk bones. At least that’s what he told us. You know, to seal threads. Whatever bones were left of those girls is probably holding pipes together.”

“Where did he make this putty?” Hannibal asks.

“At the cabin,” Abigail says, “I can show you later.”

There’s a knock on the door then. It’s soft and unobtrusive, but still surprising. Hannibal scents the air, catching Will doing the same as Alana goes to check who it is. Abigail’s brow is furrowed but she doesn’t seem too worried. She should have no reason to be, as it smells like another young beta - female this time.

“Hello, can I help you?” Alana asks the interloper.

“Yeah, um, I live just across the street. I heard Abigail was back and I saw the cars out front, so I just figured I’d drop by and see if it was true.”

At what must be a familiar voice, Abigail hurries to the front door.

“Marissa?”

“Abby, you’re here!”

“Hey, why don’t we-Guys? We’ll be back in a little bit, okay?”

“Don’t go far,” Alana warns.

“Just wandering the yard,” Abigail says, “It’ll be fine.”

Whatever she says next is muted as Alana comes back inside, shutting the door behind her.

“A friend, I assume?” Hannibal says.

Alana shrugs.

“Guess so.”

“I’m not sure we should leave them alone,” Will says, “After what just happened.”

“The girl does seem to be a magnet for trouble,” Hannibal admits.

“Yeah, I agree,” Alana says. “Honestly, I was planning on waiting maybe two minutes max before heading out to watch her. Just need a convenient excuse that doesn’t make her feel infantilized.”

“How about: ‘I know you’re an adult and all, but you just narrowly escaped death twice, and there could still be another killer lurking around,’” Will suggests.

“Yeah, I think that’ll do. Let’s go.”

Alana heads out first. Despite his obvious concern, Will is slow to stand from his chair. Hannibal offers him a hand, remembering that Will had complained of headaches and taken more Aspirin than was normally advised earlier. He doubts it’s the sole source of Will’s strange mood, but it is certainly having an impact. He makes a mental note to cut back on Will’s venom intake at least for the next couple of weeks.

“Thanks,” Will mumbles as Hannibal pulls him to his feet.

“Are you alright, Will? Still have a headache?”

He presses the back of his hand to Will’s forehead like he’s checking for a fever he knows isn’t there. He is a bit warm, but it’s not anything to be concerned about as alphas tend to run a bit hotter than the norm.

“Sort of,” Will says, “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just...tight.”

“You feel pressure around your head?”

“Yeah, I think. But it’s not like, uh, the kind you get with a tension headache. I don’t really know how to describe it.”

“Hmmm...perhaps you should-”

Hannibal pauses at the sound of shouting. He and WIll glance at each other for just a second before hurrying outside. The shouting has stopped but the girls seem agitated as they converse with a young man on the other side of the stream. Alana seems on-edge as well, positioned in front of them with her body half-turned as if to shield them. Abigail’s friend crouches down, picks up a couple of stones and chucks them at the man. He steps out of the way of the first one, but the second one hits its mark, striking him on the temple. He presses a hand against it and, after seeing the blood and noticing the approach of two grown men, flees into the forest.

“Who the hell was that?” Will demands as they reach the girls.

“I don’t know, some girl’s asshole brother,” says Marissa.

“Cassie Boyle,” Alana says, voice quivering a bit, “He’s her brother.”

“He came through the forest?” Hannibal asks, crossing the stream to where he disappeared.

With the rest of the group behind his back, he quickly shifts the dead leaves around the bloodied stone Marissa threw with his shoe, hiding it from view. It could be of some use later, but only if no one notices it.

“Yeah,” Abigail says, “There’s houses on the other side.”

“Marissa! “

Hannibal turns around, surprised to see yet another uninvited guest.

“Marissa, come home! I know you heard me when I told you to stay away from this place!”

“Mom! Could you stop being such a bitch?”

Hannibal takes a good, long look at the girl as she reluctantly follows her mother home. Brown hair, blue eyes, wind-chafed skin. Same height, same weight, and presumably the same age as Abigail. Were it not for her close proximity to the Hobbs family, her continued survival would be a miraculous thing. To her own misfortune, she is too naive to see the very real danger her mother is trying to keep her from.

She is also quite rude.

While the others discuss what just happened, Hannibal considers his new plan of action. Marissa would be the perfect follow-up to Cassie Boyle. Not only does she have the looks, but she has the mean-spirited personality and the direct contact with Cassie’s brother. Combined with a bit of hard evidence, it would be simple to frame Nicholas Boyle for his own crimes. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to then suggest Nicholas was also the mysterious caller, since in reality the copycat killer and caller are in fact one and the same. Perhaps this sort of revelation could even help to draw attention away from Abigail.

It’s decided, then: Nicholas Boyle is the copycat killer.

Having come to the conclusion that they’d had enough excitement for one day, the group disperses. Alana takes Abigail out to eat at one of her favorite restaurants, as Hannibal and Will respectfully decline the offer to join them. He does his best to pretend he doesn’t see the longing in Will’s eyes as they drive away.

“You could’ve brought your own food, you know.”

“I don’t think the establishment would have appreciated that,” Hannibal says, “Besides, I made too much food for one person, and I prefer not to waste any if possible.”

Will sighs, but doesn’t say anything more on the subject until they’ve reached their destination.

“I’m honestly kind of surprised you didn’t insist on paying for your own room. One much nicer than a three-star hotel,” Will says as they check in at what Hannibal certainly agrees is far from the finest lodging.

The lounge is clean and spacious, complemented by tasteful woodland-themed decorations, but it’s clear that all the effort went into this one customer-facing area and nowhere else. The dining area is pitiful: consisting of no more than four small wooden tables, a single buffet line with perhaps five different options, and a breakfast section with only stale-smelling muffins and two different kinds of cereal.

The room itself isn’t much better, but there is the benefit of the intimacy its small area provides. It’s unlikely they’ll use the second bed, but they couldn’t exactly decline the room since the FBI paid for it. This room was, in fact, suggested by WIll, who offered the excuse of saving money. The FBI couldn’t argue with that reasoning and his and Will’s relationship remains a barely-hidden secret.

“So do we eat in here, or do we go back downstairs?” Will asks.

Unfortunately, their room does not include a proper table. The choice should be obvious, but Hannibal isn’t often provided with the opportunity to have Will all to himself. There’s some comfort, though minimal, to be found in the fact that they will not be the ones to clean the sheets later.

“Here is fine,” Hannibal says, going into the restroom to procure a towel to place down on the bed. It’s only polite to avoid making a mess if at all possible. Before he turns back, Hannibal checks his watch for the time: 5:48 PM. Still early, but he’s not sure when his next opportunity will come about.

“Will?”

“Yeah?”

“I seem to have left my cell phone in the rental,” Hannibal lies.

“I’ll get it, “ Will offers, “You got the keys?”

“They’re on the end table.”

Hannibal waits until the door closes automatically behind Will, then pulls his phone out of his right pocket. He crouches next to his travel bag and stuffs it into the side compartment inside the main zipper. Easy to overlook if one isn’t paying attention.

He unzips one of the lunchboxes next, pulling out a thermos full of homemade ginger green tea. He sets it on the end table where the keys were and reaches back inside his travel bag, pulling out a nondescript bottle of acetaminophen. Most of the pills within are, in fact, what they’re advertised to be, but there are a handful which are something else altogether. Hannibal pours out a decent amount, picking through the bone-white pills until he finds three that are just slightly off-color. To anyone not expecting them, these three melatrazodone pills would be nearly invisible.

He unscrews the lid of what is to be Will’s last drink for the night and drops the pills in. They dissolve rather quickly on their own, but Hannibal takes a spoon and stirs the mix to expedite the process. That done, he prepares the rest of the meal: spicy tuna sandwiches with pepper jack cheese, avocado, lime, and homemade relish. He thinks Will should appreciate the nod to their last stay in Minnesota.

It’s been long enough that Hannibal has begun to worry that something unfortunate has befallen Will when he finally returns, swinging the door open with an apologetic look on his face.

“Didn’t mean to be gone so long,” he says, “Wasn’t in the rental. I checked the parking lot too but didn’t see anything, so I went and asked the front desk, but they said they hadn’t seen a phone either. So I retraced our steps, went back to the house. Couldn’t find it there, either...”

“...Oh,” Hannibal says, at a loss for words.

“Yeah, sorry,” Will apologizes, scratching his head, “We can look more tomorrow; didn’t want to spend all night out there when I couldn’t even let you know. I mean, I could’ve called the front desk and had them page you, I guess, but…”

“Will.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s no need to apologize. You didn’t need to go to such lengths to find something I lost.”

“Yeah, but...you do so much for me and I don’t ever really do anything in return. I just want-”

“Come here, Will,” Hannibal interrupts, holding out his left hand from where he sits on the edge of the bed.

Will hesitates for a second, eyeing the hand curiously. Whatever he sees on Hannibal’s face convinces him to do as he’s told.

“Any measure of time spent with you means more to me than any object ever could,” Hannibal says as Will carefully steps into his personal space.

Hannibal wraps both arms around Will’s waist, pulling him in even closer and burying his face in his stomach. He takes this opportunity to distance himself from the regret he feels at the knowledge of the extent Will went to complete a favor based on a lie. Looking at it from an objective standpoint, the feeling is useless. Is he to expect the same when Will eventually succumbs to the medication in his tea? When he eventually realizes the source of his increased aggression and libido?

Hannibal is forced to shift his head to Will’s shoulder when Will leans over him, returning the hug and nuzzling the side of his face.

“I love you too,” Will says.

It feels off, somehow. Not wrong but not wholly correct, either. Hannibal hadn’t actually spoken the words himself, but there’s nothing in what he _had_ spoken to contradict Will’s profession. It should at least be pleasant to hear. So why is it not?

“Come now, let’s eat before it gets late.”

The meal should be just as satisfying, but it tastes different somehow. Hannibal knows he didn’t change anything from the last time. He knows he used the same ingredients from the same locations. He knows he prepared them properly. Still, they are not as good as the first batch he made that day. It’s as if his mood has soured the food.

There isn’t anything else it could be. There’s nothing wrong with the way he packed the sandwiches or the way he carried them. There’s nothing wrong with the way they taste according to Will. He can’t be the reason either, because there’s nothing wrong with him. No, Will is perfect. That is the problem. Hannibal knows Will will be better off once he accepts himself and loves himself for who he is, not for whom the world wants him to be. He knows Will will only truly be happy when he sets his inner alpha free, when he casts away the chains betas have convinced him to lock himself in, to keep them safe. He knows the free, unburdened Will is the only one who can look inside him and _see_ the whole truth of him. He’s the only one who can understand him and accept what he is.

Hannibal has done much worse things to countless people over the years and felt nothing but satisfaction because they deserved every bit of it. Perhaps here lies the problem, as Will isn’t deserving of any of this deception. It may be necessary in the long run, but Hannibal no longer finds joy in it.

Even as he and Will finish their meal and climb into bed, he can’t help but imagine all the scenarios in which he would be forced to apologize for all he’s done. Would it be too much? Would Will forgive him at face value, or would he demand payment for Hannibal’s transgressions? Would he seek revenge? Would he go off on his own, leaving Hannibal behind as punishment?

“I’m worried about Abigail,” Will murmurs into his ear, “What happens if Jack doesn’t change his mind?”

“He will,” Hannibal reassures him, reaching down for Will’s arm and pulling it up to rest against his chest, “And if he doesn’t, it won’t matter. There isn’t a single piece of solid evidence to support his claim. As you said, it only makes sense that Garrett Jacob Hobbs would follow the daughter he doesn’t want to lose to the universities she applies to. It doesn’t have to mean she helped him hunt them down–the girl is clearly traumatized by her father’s actions.”

“Yes, but…”

Will hesitates, turning his hand over so that he can lace their fingers together over Hannibal’s heart.

“If it comes to that, she will be defended by the most experienced and undefeated lawyer in Michigan.”

“Of course the best psychiatrist would have the best lawyer,” Will says with an audible smile in his voice.

“How can you say I’m the best when you refuse to talk to anyone else?” Hannibal teases.

“Because,” Will says, then pulls himself up enough to lean over and kiss Hannibal on the cheek, “No one else could survive my bullshit for this long–neither psychiatrist nor lover.”

There’s a cold, prickling sensation in Hannibal’s chest. Now that he understands what must be causing it, it’s a little easier to ignore.

“Nothing about you is bullshit, Will. I thought I’d made it clear by this point that I enjoy the whole of you as a person. Including your perceived downsides and pitfalls.”

“Yeah, clear enough that I’m not gonna bother arguing with that even though I disagree. Honestly, I’m kinda disappointed but also kind of afraid that I haven’t seen your bad side yet. Someone as picture-perfect as you must be hiding something truly awful inside.”

“How rude,” Hannibal says, affecting offense, “I’m a perfect gentleman even when angry.”

“I can see that. I have no idea what actually makes you angry, though.”

“I cannot tolerate overt rudeness.”

“Seriously?” Will chuckles, “You’re literally in bed with me right now. According to a lot of people I’m the rudest guy ever.”

“It’s not the same. You’re rude when you’re intimidated or otherwise threatened in some way, like a puffer fish inflating itself when a predator gets too close. That aside, you’re also creative with it. Even your earliest remarks about me were clever and entertaining.”

“If you say so...but how _could_ I get on your nerves then?”

“Nothing you could do could ‘get on my nerves’, Will. Please don’t take that as an invitation to find out.”

Will laughs and laughs until the melatrozodone finally kicks in.

Once Hannibal has confirmed Will to have fallen into a deep and uninterruptible slumber, he collects the needed tools and supplies from his bag and the spare tire compartment of the rental car–though things could have gotten quite awkward had they actually needed the tire, it was reasonable to assume that anyone could have hidden a strange vinyl suit, gloves, and a pair of boots there. As far as Will knew, his partner had no reason to do so.

It’s as easy to pluck both Marissa Schurr and Nicholas Boyle from their homes as it is to pluck grapes from the vine. He has the advantage of being expected by neither of them as well as the advantage of having been seen with Abigail earlier. Even to Nicholas, who is certain Abigail was somehow involved in her father’s crimes, this means that Hannibal is not a threat. Middle-class and especially white young adults these days are much too secure in their perceived safety from the world’s horrors. They are young and yet unaware of how swiftly and easily their own lives can be snuffed out–like the birthday candles which mark every year they’ve avoided such a fate.

The girl he keeps unconscious, too close to FBI presence and unwilling to factor in the possibility of someone hearing her. He strips her down to her underwear and mounts her quiet, still-breathing body onto a rack of antlers in Hobbs’ cabin. The final step: a bit of Nicholas’ blood (from the rock he picked up on his way to the cabin) smeared on the inside of her lower lip. She will never wake again.

The boy is left untouched, carefully deposited on the floor in front of the body. He is likely to awaken quite some time before anyone comes to visit, but that is not what Hannibal wants. What he wants is to see what will happen. Nicholas has already proven himself a bit impulsive, rather like his deceased sister. Whatever happens as a result of what he chooses to do should prove interesting at the very least. Hannibal does a thorough sweep of the cabin and retraces his steps back to the homes, ensuring like always that he did not accidentally leave unwanted evidence behind. With that, he quietly and meticulously cleans and disposes of all his tools, each in a separate location, and then returns to his and Will’s hotel room to sleep.

∞

The group reconvenes at the Hobbs home the next morning. They spend only a few minutes in the house, allowing Abigail the time to say farewell to all the memories it harbors. They save the cabin for last.

“He cleaned everything,” says Abigail once they’re inside. “He said he was afraid of germs but I guess he was just afraid of getting caught.”

The cabin is quiet and, like Abigail said, clean. There’s a sort of stillness inside which makes the cabin feel as if it resides in a different plane of reality. Stepping through the door is like stepping through a portal to another world–one where everything within exists only through death.

“No one else ever came up here with your dad? Except you?” Will asks.

Abigail shakes her head “no.”

“Ever help him make plumbing putty?”

“He made everything by himself. Plumbing putty, glue, butter. He sold the pelts on ebay or in town. He made pillows. Carves knives out of leg bones. No parts went to waste. Otherwise it was murder.”

Hannibal can nearly smell the epiphany as much as he can see it in her eyes.

“He was feeding them to us, wasn’t he?”

Silence hangs heavy in the stale air of the cabin. It really shouldn’t be a revelation. With all of Abigail’s knowledge and wit, it probably isn’t, actually–just something deemed so terrible it shouldn’t be spoken aloud.

“It’s very likely,” Hannibal says.

Abigail crosses to the skinning table. Her hand hovers over it like she wants to touch it but doesn’t dare defile it.

“Before he cut my throat, he told me he killed those girls so he wouldn’t have to kill me.”

“You’re not responsible for anything your father did, Abigail,” Alana says.

“If he would have just killed me, none of those girls would be dead.”

Abigail flinches suddenly, reaching up to wipe what must be blood from her cheek. She stares at her finger for a brief moment before glancing up.

“You smell something?,” Will asks Hannibal, “I noticed something when we came in but I wasn’t sure. Didn’t want to be dramatic.”

Hannibal nods. He could smell it before the door was open but, like Will, he preferred the drama to unfold on its own time.

“Blood.”

Will warily climbs the stairs, nostrils flaring as he gets closer to the source of the smell. He freezes in shock at the top, forcing Hannibal and Alana to squeeze their way past him. They pause to admire and come to terms with what they’re seeing respectively as Abigail also climbs the stairs.

“MARISSA!”

Her scream spurs Will and Alana both into action. The former calls for ERT and alerts Jack of what’s happened while the latter assists Hannibal in calming Abigail down. Though he would like to stay with her and observe how she processes this turn of events, Hannibal elects to stay with Will while Alana leads her back to the house.

As the FBI won’t be here for at least a couple hours, he and Will vacate the cabin for the time being as well. Hannibal has many things he would like to say, but it’s clear that Will is absorbed in thought as he stares blankly at a large branch just in front of the rock they’ve chosen to sit on. Rather than disrupt his process by speaking or touching him, Hannibal chooses to accompany him in comfortable silence until Jack’s booming voice ruins it. They lead him to the body while the officers Jack brought with him pull out the tape and mark the area as an official crime scene.

“So we bring Abigail back home, and another body drops. Same appearance,” Jack gestures widely at the room around them, “Same theme, and you expect me to believe Abigail is not involved?”

“She’s not,” Will says, adamant as he inspects the body.

“Dr. Bloom says Abigail has a penchant for manipulation. Is she manipulating you, Will?”

“Nick Boyle could have murdered her and his sister,” Hannibal suggests, not a fan of Jack’s tone at all.

To Will’s credit, he ignores the jab altogether, nodding in agreement with Hannibal.

“Entirely possible,” he says, “There’s a bit of dried blood on her lip here. See?”

He steps out of the way, handing Jack his flashlight.

“Could be a defensive wound,” Will continues as Jack gives it a look, “But it could also belong to her attacker.”

Jack stands straight, clicking off the flashlight and returning it to Will.

“Dr. Lecter,” he says, “I want Abigail out of Minnesota. Kindly remove her for me, if you will. Guilty or not, her presence here is clearly a disturbance. I’ll follow up with you later.”

Hannibal glances uncertainly at Will, who he’s sure will be made to stay. Will also looks uncertain, but he doesn’t protest.

“Now would be best, if possible,” Jack adds.

Taking the hint, Hannibal gives Will one final, apologetic look and vacates the cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I hate everything about Garrett Jacob Hobbs (except his daughter) with my ENTIRE soul. If those parts of this chapter seem kinda boring that's why. Wouldn't have written any of that if I didn't feel like I needed it-seriously, fuck GJH that guy's a loser


	5. Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait everyone. I lost my job not long after I spent all but $30 in my checking account on buying my first car. Things have been one hell of a struggle lately since I have multiple people who rely on me monetarily. If you would like to know how you can help me get by, make sure to check the end notes.
> 
> As for this chapter, there's a whole lot of disturbing and VERY dubious consent stuff. Like, stuff that may come across to some as straight-up noncon (it's not really, I promise!)–in the first quarter, despite there being no actual sex this time. There's also a lot of stuff revolving around the 'Alphas-Only' organization I referenced in earlier chapters, and they're portrayed pretty much as a domestic terrorist gang of neon@zis. Keep that in mind as you read if that's something you're concerned about. Let's just say this chapter is where a lot of those tags come from ^^'

“Is this his tribute to Hobbs? Or is he mocking us?” Jack asks, gaze flitting between the body of Marissa Schurr and Will.

“Definitely not just a tribute,” Will says, “and I’m not quite sure.”

“Great, so we have another killer, inspired by a dead killer, who we have no information on. You’re not even sure of the motive.”

“I don’t know what you expect from me, Jack. I’m not psychic.”

“You’re not?”

Jack’s tone is...odd. Will turns to look at him and flinches back in surprise when he sees Jack suddenly has a third, glowing yellow eye protruding from his forehead.

“I am,” Jack says, “I know your future, Will. Would you like to hear it?”

“I don’t–”

“You’ll keep working for me. Even when your bones shatter and your skin shreds like paper, you’ll keep working for me. Do you know why, Will?”

Will shakes his head, stepping backwards slowly as Jack’s presence itself seems to swell to the point that it’s becoming claustrophobic, that it’s getting hard to breathe. Where has all the air gone?

“Because you love it,” Jack says, seemingly no further away from Will than he was a moment ago, “You need it. You revel in death and decay, but you’re afraid. You’re afraid people will start to notice, that you’ll be tied up and caged like the rabid animal you are.”

Jack takes a step forward, and it’s like all the air in the room has disappeared–blown out through the cracks in the walls and the holes in the ceiling by Jack’s force of will. 

“You’re a killer, Will. It’s why you’re so keen on defending Abigail. It’s why you fake distress at crime scenes you want to see. You’ve done worse yourself.”

Will tries to speak, tries to deny everything Jack is saying, but there’s no sound without air. His lungs are empty, and there’s no sound. Jack’s voice is in his head and the cabin around them is disintegrating, bits and pieces of it blowing away in the airless wind. 

There is no cabin nor Jack now, just an empty field and Abigail Hobbs–covered in too much blood where she crouches next to the body of Nick Boyle.

“Isn’t it great?” She asks him, holding out her hands. 

It’s only now that Will realizes the blood isn’t coming from the body. Abigail’s hands are bleeding but the blood is coming out in waves, too much and too fast to make sense of. 

“Isn’t it great?” She repeats, gesturing at him with both hands.

Will follows the movement with his eyes, gasping aloud when he realizes his own hands are bleeding the same as hers. There’s no pain, just the feeling of cupping your hands under a running faucet like you’re trying to catch as much water as possible.

“What the hell is going on?” Will demands, relieved to find he can speak again.

“Isn’t it great? We can paint it all over everything!” To demonstrate, Abigail smears both hands over Nick’s face until it’s completely red. “It spreads to everything we touch, and isn’t the color beautiful?”

Will blinks and he’s home, but the walls are all red. The dogs are there but they’re cowering in the corner, trying to back away from Abigail as she paints them lovingly. Will is oozing his own trail onto the floor and there’s nothing he can do. The dogs may be frightened, but she’s just petting them. They’ll get used to it. Will thinks he’s starting to get used to it when the world around him changes again without warning.

Abigail has been replaced by _her,_ and she looks like she’s been completely hollowed out. Her broken, twisted form resembles that of one of those stone fountains with the angel statue on top, only she’s made of flesh and blood and doesn’t make any sense. 

“Oh, Will,” she says with Abigail’s voice, “why are you so concerned with feigning remorse? You clearly don’t feel any, or you would’ve turned yourself in all those years ago.”

She’s right, after all. No point in denying something to the only person in the world who knows the truth. Especially when they’re dead. Is Will dead, now? He can’t tell.

“You know the statistics,” she says, “you know what it feels like. It wasn’t a one-time thing. It will happen again. You’ll let your guard down and next time it’ll be someone you love, because you have people you love now. You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.”

She keeps repeating herself like a broken, warped record, and covering his ears isn’t doing Will any good, so he dashes forward and kicks her in the face as hard as he can. It makes a sickening crunch, but that doesn’t shut her up either. He reaches down and twists her head around until it pops off like the cap on a soda bottle but she keeps talking, and now she’s grinning at him with this empty-eyed stare he’s sure would give him nightmares if he wasn’t already in one.

“Bite me,” she says.

He does, and the awful noise finally stops as he lets her head fall to the ground. Will closes his eyes, trying his best to take control over the nightmare, to put himself at his stream where it’s safe. It’s easy enough to imagine the gurgling at his feet is that of the water, until he opens his eyes again.

Hannibal is where _she_ was now, holding a hand against the gushing wound on his throat: the same one Will left _her_ with. He’s looking at Will like he’s some cruel monster, doing his best to scramble away, slipping on his own blood all the while. Will knows it’s not real, but he doesn’t know what Hannibal looks like when he’s afraid (if he even can be), and seeing even the illusion of him like this is agony. It’s just so _wrong._

Nightmare be damned, Will chases after him, careful not to trample him as he tries to stop the bleeding. They’re both crying–Hannibal from fear and Will from horror, but the bleeding won’t stop. No, it’s only getting worse. Hannibal’s eyes are yellowing, skin growing sallow and Will’s efforts are only covering him in more blood. He needs to get Hannibal on his feet again. He tries to tell him to stand but his throat isn’t working, or Hannibal can’t hear him, or the air is gone again. He gives up, grabbing both of Hannibal’s arms and pulling on them as hard as he can. There’s a horrible ripping sound, then another, and then Hannibal falls to the ground–arms still in Will’s hands. Before either of them can attempt to scream, Hannibal’s arms become white snakes, slithering up Will’s own arms and striking–

Will is awake suddenly, standing barefoot in the very field he’d just dreamed of. He stumbles backwards at the realization that his arms are indeed being constricted, falling on his ass. 

Winston barks at him, coming up close to lick his face. When he tries to give Will some space, Will notices that what’s wrapped around his arms is actually a leash, not a couple of snakes. Considering he never puts the dogs on leashes, it isn’t any less odd. With great effort and an embarrassing amount of time, Will manages to untangle them.

“How’d you drag me all the way out here, huh boy?” Will jokes without humor.

Winston whines at him as Will searches his pockets. No phone there, he must have left it at home.

“Great,” Will mutters.

Thankfully, he’s walked out this far with the dogs a few times before and thinks he knows the way home. The things he can see in the light of the moon look a little different than usual, so he ends up making a wrong turn about halfway there and has to backtrack. When Winston starts to get antsy and pull on the leash, Will lets him go. It’s quite likely the dog knows the way back better than he does right now.

After following Winston, who’s blessedly patient enough to wait for him to catch up when he falls behind, for nearly twenty-five minutes, the house finally comes into view. Will’s never been happier to see it. Upon opening the door, the dogs rush at him and Winston, so it’s clear they’ve been gone for quite a while. They seem confused and almost jealous.

“Next time, guys. I promise.”

After confirming they’ve been fed, Will grabs his phone off the end table. He has to turn the screen off and on again to confirm it is indeed only 8:09 PM. That’s more than just a little odd considering Will doesn’t normally sleep until close to midnight on the best of nights. A quick glance towards his desk confirms that he was working on grading papers earlier. As much as he hates doing so, he’s never fallen asleep in the middle of it. He doesn’t normally take long breaks either; he prefers to knock it out in one sitting, if possible.

That leaves the question: did he fall asleep so quickly he didn’t notice it happening, or did he somehow start sleepwalking without having actually gone to sleep first? Is that even possible? He hasn’t sleepwalked since he was seven or eight years old and even then it was incredibly rare. What is going on? Will turns his phone screen back on and is alarmed to see how many missed calls and texts he has. They’re all from Hannibal, of course, and it’s with great remorse that Will remembers he was meant to be at Hannibal’s house for dinner half an hour ago. 

Hannibal and Abigail had invited Will over for dinner a couple days ago to celebrate Abigail’s hard-won freedom from both Jack and Port Haven. They’ll be done eating long before Will gets there if he leaves now, but Will doesn’t want to just not show up. He calls Trey, giving him a vague excuse about a minor emergency and arranging for him to come over as soon as possible, and then he rushes out to his car.

∞

It’s nearly 10:00PM by the time Will gets there. The roads were a bit iced over halfway through, and Will was going fast enough that he was actually pulled over by what must have been a very bored small town cop. Luckily for Will, the cop was too stupid to question him when he flashed his special investigator badge and stumbled over a half-baked lie about a crime scene.

He’s worried at first as he steps inside and takes his shoes off that they may already be asleep, since Hannibal is quite the early bird and all. The sound of laughter coming from the sitting room erases that worry, and Will hurries towards the sound.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m so late–”

Will pauses as he immediately catches sight of Alana Bloom, sitting casually in Will’s favorite chair with a half-empty glass of white wine in her hand. She seems to have been speaking just before Will interrupted. Whatever she was saying must have been rather amusing to both Hannibal and Abigail, who is still giggling. Hannibal is now looking up at Will with something like joyful surprise, which makes Will realize he had forgotten to even let them know he was still coming.

“Oh, hey Will–”

Alana pauses, happy to see him at first but quickly changing her mind. She only manages to hold eye contact with Will for a couple seconds before turning all of her attention to Abigail. It isn’t until Hannibal’s at his side and carefully steering him back out of the room that Will realizes his face is the reason.

“We didn’t think you were coming,” says Hannibal.

“Yeah, I didn’t either for a minute. I mean, I forgot. No, not, uh…”

Hannibal releases him once they’ve reached the kitchen, surprisingly unconcerned about the idea of Will just forgetting their celebratory family get-together as he rummages through the first of his refrigerators for ingredients. 

“I didn’t just forget like that, I…”

Will watches helplessly as Hannibal cracks a couple of eggs into a skillet. Right, breakfast for dinner. He’d forgotten the menu as well. Christ.

“I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” Will admits, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Something has got to be wrong with me, Hannibal, and it’s not just stress. I was–”

Will hesitates to say ‘sleepwalking,’ both out of an aversion to being pitied and because he doesn’t want to cause any distress in the other man.

“You’re here now, Will. That’s all that matters,” Hannibal says, adding what’s undoubtedly a homemade sausage to the skillet. 

Will’s stomach grumbles traitorously, and he’s tempted for a moment to just forget about it. They could go about the rest of their evening like nothing strange had happened; eating breakfast late at night, cozying up in front of the fire, perhaps even making love when Abigail and–

“Why is Alana here?” Will demands, previous concern thrown out like trash.

“I invited her,” Hannibal admits after a slight pause, “When it seemed you weren’t coming.”

“That easy to replace me, huh.”

For the first time since he started cooking, Hannibal meets Will’s eyes. He doesn’t bother refuting Will’s admittedly ridiculous claim. He just looks Will in the eyes for a moment like he expects Will to find the answer there, then returns his attention to the food. Will knows it’s his fault and no one else’s for unintentionally ignoring Hannibal. Still, he can’t get over the way Alana looked in his spot: perfect, like the last puzzle piece slotting into place to complete the picture of a normal family. Like she belonged there instead of Will.

“You couldn’t have just saved my portion?” Will asks, trying to keep his voice level despite the anger heating up his bloodstream, “Instead of calling someone else to eat it?”

“Breakfast is best served fresh,” Hannibal says, flipping the eggs, “Eggs don’t reheat very well.”

“So you were more concerned about the state of the food than you were about me?”

“I had thought you were sleeping. Perhaps I had even hoped, what with the way you’ve been overworking yourself so much lately.”

“I was sleepwalking,” Will finally admits, mostly out of spite. He wants Hannibal to feel guilty now more than he doesn’t want to be pitied.

Finally, Hannibal plates the food and turns all of his attention towards him. The relief Will’s meant to feel at the look of concern on Hannibal’s face is late.

“Sleepwalking? You’ve never mentioned that before.”

“Yeah, because it didn’t happen before. At least not in the last few decades,” Will says.

“For how long?” Hannibal asks him, “Do you know?”

“I haven’t got a goddamn clue,” Will says, shaking his head, “I don’t even remember going to sleep in the first place. Hell, I don’t remember what I was doing before I fell asleep.”

Hannibal frowns at him for a second.

“That’s strange,” he says, turning away to put something Will can’t see into the oven, then opening the fridge to remove a small jar he sets on the counter nearby.

“That’s it?” Will asks, in disbelief as Hannibal adds the finishing touches to his meal.

“What would you have me say, Will? You’re stressed, you need to take a break. I wouldn’t be so concerned about the sleepwalking, what with it being the first time, and you’re clearly unharmed–”

“I woke up in the middle of a field almost half a mile from my house, which, if you haven’t yet noticed, is located basically out in the middle of nowhere. If I didn’t have the unconscious sense to bring Winston with me I might not have made it back in time to be here.”

“You left your home?” Hannibal asks, genuine worry evident in his voice now.

“Yes,” Will says, “and I had the most awful nightmares. I saw you, and I–”

_I killed you. I killed you like that innocent omega girl in Atlanta; gave you a bitter end when all you asked for was a sweet beginning._

“Will–”

Will is being comfortably crushed in Hannibal’s arms. He can feel tears pricking his eyes, and it gives him pause. He’s never been one to cry like this, can’t even remember the last time he did before Hannibal. It’s just another bullet point on his growing list of strange things happening only after Hannibal.

“Eat first,” Hannibal says, “You must be hungry. We can talk about your dreams later.”

Will nods solemnly, willing his eyes to reabsorb the tears before they can fall. He’s mostly embarrassed now, equally because of his absurd jealousy towards Alana and because he’s making a fool of himself again. It feels like that’s all he does these days: overreact and act a fool. It will never stop being a wonder to him that Hannibal tolerates it all.

Will’s about to ask for some silverware as Hannibal releases him, but he’s quickly met with a torn-off piece of warm bread pressing against his lips. He raises an eyebrow at Hannibal, but relents once it becomes apparent Hannibal’s dead-set on hand feeding him for some reason. The bread is really the only thing Hannibal can feed him this way without making a mess, so Will figures there’s no harm in allowing it for now.

It tastes amazing of course; soft and flaky. Will commends himself for remaining patient as Hannibal quietly feeds him the rest of it, sometimes with a bit of the jam Will can’t quite identify the source of. Feeling playful towards the end, Will moves just so that Hannibal smears a bit of the jam to the side of his mouth.

“Oops,” he says, licking it off as slowly and sensually as he can, missing a bit on purpose, “Did I get it?”

Hannibal tracks the movement with his eyes, pupils expanding as he swallows visibly. Will thinks he’s maybe going to lean in and clean the rest of it off himself, but he doesn’t. He reaches back for the jar, then brings two fingers coated in jam back to Will’s mouth.

“Suck.”

The single word, one Will didn’t think was even in Hannibal’s vocabulary, is a shock to his system. It’s much too hot in the room now, and the knowledge that they can’t do much while the girls are just a few rooms over is maddening. So much so that Will immediately does as told to keep his inner alpha from howling out of frustration: closing his lips around Hannibal’s fingers, sucking and swirling his tongue around until they’re clean and Hannibal’s removing them. 

There’s only half a second at best between Hannibal’s fingers and his tongue trading places. Will finds he rather enjoys being shoved roughly against the counter behind him. So far, Hannibal has seemed content to let Will lead in all their sexual encounters. Will was fine with that dynamic before, but as Hannibal breaks the kiss to nip at his throat and grope his ass, Will begins to think it’s perhaps time for a change.

Too soon, Hannibal begins to pull back. Will keeps him close with an arm wrapped around his shoulders but doesn’t try to pull him back in just yet.

“Fuck me,” Will huffs.

At Hannibal’s look of uncertainty, Will takes a deep breath.

“Later, when the girls are gone,” he clarifies.

“Abigail’s not going anywhere,” Hannibal needlessly reminds him.

“You know what I mean,” Will says, rolling his eyes, “she’ll have to sleep eventually.”

“As will I,” Hannibal says, gently pulling Will’s arm down from around him, “I’m quite tired, Will. I don’t think I’ll make it until Abigail goes to bed.”

Will frowns at him, confused by the sudden shift in mood. He opens his mouth to complain, but Alana’s voice sounds out from behind him.

“Thanks for the meal, Hannibal,” she says, “Good to see you again for a bit, Will. I’m heading home now.”

“Finally,” Will mouths at Hannibal. He doesn’t seem as amused by it as Will had expected.

“Thank you for coming, Alana. I’ll see you at the fundraiser next week, yes?”

“I’ll be there,” she says, and then she’s gone.

Will tries, once more, to appeal to Hannibal’s animal nature, but he hardly gets a word out before Abigail’s interrupting him this time.

“Oh, hey Will!” she says, almost like she hadn’t even noticed him when he came in.

She giggles softly, and as Will turns reluctantly to look at her, he thinks maybe she didn’t. She seems a little high, in fact, as she yawns and trudges tiredly towards the stairs.

“I’m beat,” she says, “see you guys at breakfast part two!”

Will waits patiently until he can hear one of the guest bedroom doors click shut before turning back to Hannibal, who’s somehow managed to sneak away in order to save the food Will obviously isn’t eating. Once again, Will is surprised at his own disappointment. He knows how much food means to Hannibal but he doesn’t think this sort of thing will ever stop bugging him. As Hannibal closes the refrigerator door, Will comes up behind him to wrap his arms around him in a hug as tight as the one Hannibal gave him earlier.

“I’m tired, Will,” he says before Will can say anything.

“You didn’t seem very tired two minutes ago,” Will complains. 

Normally, he would let it go. He should probably let it go, but his dick is still throbbing almost painfully in his pants from that kiss, and he doesn’t _want_ to let it go.

“Oh, I was,” Hannibal says, making an attempt to free himself from Will’s hold, “I didn’t mean for it to go any further than that, Will. I apologize for leading you on. Please let go now.”

“Uh-uh,” Will tuts, pulling Hannibal against him even tighter, “No. You don’t get to do that and just walk away. Not after letting me go a whole week without seeing you.”

“I barely slept last night, Will. I simply don’t have the energy-”

“Fine,” Will interrupts, “We’ll just do it like the first time, then. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”

Will leans in, pressing a kiss to Hannibal’s nape and letting his fangs slowly slide out until the tips are poking against the skin-

Hannibal suddenly breaks free of him, displaying an absurd amount of energy for someone so ‘tired.’ No, he doesn’t look even remotely sleepy as he glares at Will, in fact. He can’t be serious. He’s either lying for reasons Will doesn’t understand nor care to know, or he’s playing a game Will doesn’t have the patience for. Will’s betting on the latter.

“Is this really necessary?” Will asks him, stance wide in case Hannibal tries to flee past him like a frightened prey animal.

“I could ask the same of you,” Hannibal says, eyeing the stairs behind Will like he really is considering making a run for it, “I don’t want to do this right now, Will.”

“Then stop playing,” Will says, letting his fangs slide out to their longest comfortable length.

“I am not playing anything, Will. I only want to sleep.”

He’s good at this. If it weren’t for the covert glance at Will’s erection and his unrestrained enthusiasm earlier, Will might actually believe him. If he’s going to put so much effort into it, Will supposes he may as well play along.

“Fine,” he says, forcing his fangs back up fast enough that it’s clearly audible, “Go to bed, then. I’ll find some other way to deal with...this.”

Will steps out of the way, inviting Hannibal to pass through with an overly dramatic bow and a sweeping motion of his arm. Hannibal eyes him warily but Will can see a glint of mischief there. He obviously knows it’s a trap, and yet he literally walks right into it.

With a savage snarl, Will throws him into the nearest wall. He snaps at Hannibal but his extended fangs end up puncturing his own lower lip as Hannibal ducks out of the way and shoves him backwards.

“No, Will!” 

“What’s the problem, Hannibal?” Will growls at him, “Too tired to do anything? Fine. I can give you just enough to put you right to sleep. You won’t remember a thing if you don’t want to.”

Hannibal shakes his head, slowly backing away towards the stairs as Will creeps towards him. If Will were anyone else he would absolutely be deceived by Hannibal’s meticulously crafted mask of intimidation–it appears Hannibal can be quite the actor when he wants to be.

They stare each other down for another moment, neither of them blinking. Will is so focused on Hannibal he hardly registers the pain of the self-inflicted wound on his lower lip.

Will catches the subtle change in Hannibal’s stance and makes his move just a second earlier. Hannibal’s fast, but Will is faster. He lunges forward and grabs hold of Hannibal’s leg just as he reaches the third step. Hannibal attempts to kick out at him with his other leg but is unable to avoid being pulled back down. Before he can recover and run away again, Will tackles him to the floor.

“You–you need to calm down, Will, you’re going–”

Will growls in frustration as Hannibal holds him back with an arm against his throat. There isn’t much space at all between the two of them at this point, but Will’s fangs can only extend so far. 

“I said no, Will! Stop this!”

Will hears the words, but he doesn’t process them. Hannibal’s taunting him–tilting his head back further and exposing his throat because he _wants_ Will to bite him. He loves it when Will bites him; loves it when Will’s angry and isn’t afraid to take what he wants. It’s all a game and Will intends to win. 

Hannibal’s putting on quite a show: brows deeply furrowed, arm a solid barrier between them. He even appears to be sweating with exertion. If Will didn’t know better, he’d think Hannibal was actually resisting him, but it’s just an act. It must be, or he would have thrown Will off by now. He’s stronger than Will, after all. If he really doesn’t want this he wouldn’t let it drag on for so long. 

Everything about his demeanor says he doesn’t, but Will knows. He knows he’ll calm down as soon as he gives in and lets Will win this little game of theirs. He knows, despite the way Hannibal’s half-heartedly trying to push him away, that when he manages to get his fly open, (he’s having a rough time of it with all this squirming about) Hannibal will be just as–

Soft?

Will releases Hannibal’s dick like it’s burned him, scrambling to get off of the other man and onto his feet. Hannibal stands just as quickly, the few hurried steps backwards he takes as he zips his pants back up burning Will even worse. They stand opposite each other like a couple of cowboys having a standoff–neither one daring to move for fear that the other will pull a gun and fire.

Eventually, the tension gets to be too much and Will, turning his eyes to the floor and keeping them there, is the one to run away this time. Without much thought, he dashes up the stairs and into the second floor guest bathroom, shutting the door as quickly yet quietly as possible behind him. Gripping the edge of the sink like he’ll fall if he doesn’t hang on for dear life, Will takes a minute to look at himself in the mirror.

The first thing he notices is that his eyes are red. Not just red: in fact, there’s only just enough blue left in them to suggest he hadn’t gone full red. He’s not sure which is more terrifying: the fact that he nearly went red in response to Hannibal rejecting him (because it _was_ a rejection, Will solemnly acknowledges now) or the fact that he was neither trying to go red nor aware of it as it was happening.

The other thing that stands out is his lip wound. Or wounds, more like: two deep punctures going all the way through. The holes are small but they’re bleeding at a rate Will’s not sure how to deal with. It’s unfortunate the injury was caused by his own unwarranted attack on the nearest doctor.

Shame pools at the bottom of Will’s stomach and clogs his throat like acid. Especially considering the context of what had just happened, his appearance distinctly reminds him of a case he lectured on more than two years ago. Armando Montelongo, an alpha of perhaps forty years of age, was only caught and tried for dozens of sexual assaults and two murders because his last victim–a male omega, nineteen years old–left behind plenty of evidence in his fight to escape. Most notable being the violent bite wound the alpha couldn’t hide from his wife and coworkers, as a bandaged mouth tends to stand out a lot.

Will spent three days on that case. He never would have spent any time on it had he not been essentially forced to. Apparently, it was to be an important part of the curriculum as it was a ‘near-perfect example of the typical mentality shared by alpha offenders.’ He’s honestly not sure if the higher-ups really cared about it that much or if they just wanted to taunt their own antisocial alpha professor. Regardless, cases like these have been used to instill fear in betas by people both ill-intentioned and well-meaning. 

Will plops down on the edge of the toilet, cradling his head in his hands as he quells the urge to scream. Armondo Montelogo was meant to be his foil, and yet here Will is easily comparing the two of them. Just like with Montelogo, people are going to ask questions. What the hell is he going to tell them? The truth?

‘Oh yeah, I did that to myself by accident when I tried to bite my significant other against his will. He rejected my sexual advances multiple times prior because he just wanted to sleep, so I tried to force him. I only stopped when I realized he wasn’t aroused by the attempted assault like I thought he’d be. I’m fine, though!’

Will groans at the thought of what everyone’s reactions to that would be. Alana would never speak to him again. Zeller would probably just nod along like he’d been expecting something similar to happen eventually. Even Jack and Beverly wouldn’t be able to excuse something like that.

Seriously, what the fuck was he thinking? Yes, Hannibal has admitted to enjoying these bouts of aggression and dominance from him before, but he’s never so much as implied that he’s alright with Will just doing whatever the hell he wants with him, whenever he wants to. He’s never suggested they engage in consensual nonconsent, either. That playfulness Will thought he saw in Hannibal’s eyes for a split second could’ve been _anything!_

“You’re sick, Will,” he says to himself, “Something. Is. Wrong. With. You.”

He spends another fifteen minutes or so wallowing in self hatred and disgust before he remembers he’s still in Hannibal’s bathroom and will have to confront the other man eventually. It’s unfortunate that this is one of the only rooms upstairs without a single window, or Will could have simply climbed out of one like a horny teenage boy escaping his lover’s bedroom before their parents could catch them. Unlike the teenager in that scenario, Will desperately doesn’t want to leave the room he’s currently hiding in. Hannibal’s reaction is the only one Will can’t begin to imagine and that terrifies him. Hannibal’s proven himself to be very forgiving thus far, but surely everyone has a limit for how much they can tolerate? Will’s not even sure he deserves to be forgiven right now. What if Hannibal changes his mind about their relationship? What if he wants to break up? Would there be anything Will could say or do that wouldn’t just make things worse?

At the sound of Hannibal climbing the stairs, Will makes a snap decision. Whatever happens is going to happen regardless of how long he hides away. May as well get it over with now so he can go sulk at home before it’s too late and he has to make things even more uncomfortable by asking to stay in one of the guest rooms.

Will stands up, shaking himself off and taking a single deep breath before opening the door. He nearly slams it shut upon noticing that Hannibal is _right there,_ but the other man catches the edge of it before he can do so.

“It’s alright, Will. No need to hide.”

Will isn’t sure if it’s the desperate relief at hearing those simple words or the soothing tone of his voice, like Will’s the one who’s really been hurt in this scenario, but something about what Hannibal says breaks him. He bursts into tears, sobbing uncontrollably as Hannibal envelopes him in his arms and silently leads him to bed. _His_ bed, not one of the guest rooms. The realization has him wailing loud enough that he unfortunately can’t hear what Hannibal is trying to say. 

He doesn’t hesitate to lie down, though he does feel ashamed of how much snot and tears is about to end up on the sheets. It’s odd that Hannibal hasn’t bothered to offer him a tissue yet, but Will’s glad for it all the same. He’s already beginning to feel like Hannibal’s treating him just like he would any other patient who starts crying inconsolably during a session. The reality is worse, though: Hannibal disappears for a minute, then reappears with a small hand towel from the en suite bathroom and, instead of offering it to him, takes it upon himself to wipe Will’s face off like he’s a messy child wholly unconcerned about basic hygiene. He has the gall to smile softly at him like one too when Will snatches the towel from him out of humiliated annoyance and makes a show of loudly blowing his nose into it.

Will’s thinking he may finally be recovering when Hannibal takes the hand towel back from him, seemingly unbothered by how disgusting it must be now. He curls up on his side of the bed and does his best to will himself to sleep before Hannibal returns. It doesn’t happen of course, but Hannibal is blessedly skilled at reading the room and says nothing as he crawls into bed behind him and shifts forward until he can wrap an arm around Will’s waist. If he weren’t so suddenly exhausted, being spooned would probably be enough to make him start crying again. He’s asleep before he can feel embarrassed about it.

∞

Will sleeps a blessedly dreamless sleep and wakes early the next morning. He thanks whatever force or deity which may or may not exist for keeping Abigail asleep so that he doesn’t need to make things any more awkward than they already are. Hannibal is already awake, of course, and Will begrudgingly requests his assistance in suturing and bandaging his damaged lip. Hannibal agrees without even the slightest hint of discomfort but Will can barely hold still throughout the process. He knows what happened last night is somehow over and done with in Hannibal’s eyes, but it isn’t for him. As soon as Hannibal is finished with him, Will rushes out before he can change his mind about everything. Abigail may be disappointed, but family breakfast will have to wait.

At least it’s Sunday, Will thinks as he finally pulls into his driveway. There are currently no cases to work on, no classes to teach, and no responsibilities he has to take care of besides the dogs, plus he has Trey to help with them if needed. Only, upon entering the house and greeting everyone, Will notices the aforementioned omega is in fact absent.

“Where’s Trey?” Will asks the dogs like they would even know if they could speak.

Great. So on top of everything else Will’s been dealing with, Trey’s suddenly decided to just not do the one thing Will pays him to do. Seriously, what’s so hard about just staying in the house and letting the dogs out when they need to go? The dogs appear to have been fed; is this just how it is every time Will calls him over? Does Trey really just let Will pay for his taxi fare here and back, feeding the dogs and leaving whenever he damn well pleases? 

The dogs must sense something is wrong with him as they quickly disperse and settle where they aren’t in Will’s path as he begins to pace the room. He knows he’s being absurd, that this line of thinking is only harmful to both Trey and himself, but this knowledge isn’t abating his outrage at the situation. If anything, his anger at himself for _being_ so needlessly angry is only intensifying it. There’s no way this is normal; he has to figure out what’s going on with him before he’s past the point of no return. 

With rather unfortunate timing, the front door opens and in comes Trey with a bag of fast food in one hand and a can of pepsi in the other. His eyes meet Will’s and he freezes in his tracks much the same as he did when Will tackled him on the street during the search for Baltimore’s Robin Hood. Also like then, he doesn’t try to defend himself when Will rushes forward and slams him back against the door. 

“Where the hell were you?” Will growls at him.

“At-at the burger king...?” 

Trey lifts the paper bag in his trembling left hand as evidence. Will snatches it away from him, seeing that it does indeed have the Burger King logo printed on the side. 

“How often am I paying you to run off and get burgers?” 

“I don’t–”

“Oh, you don’t?” Will interrupts, “It’s just this one time, right? This one time you thought I’d be gone too long to notice.”

“I don’t know what you’re–”

Trey lets out a small, pained noise as Will pulls him forwards before slamming him back into the door again. He tilts his head backwards, exposing his throat to Will in what feels like some kind of surrender. It’s like he’s giving Will the chance to bite him and end the confrontation immediately. That’s just like an omega, offering himself up as a compromise instead of properly defending himself or admitting his faults. 

If he were a simpler alpha, perhaps he’d take Trey up on his unspoken offer. Inject him with so much venom they’d both forget what he’d done wrong in the first place. Will’s never really thought about it much before, but Trey is pretty nice to look at. He smells nice too, as omegas often do. Hannibal wouldn’t necessarily have to find out if…

Winston whines from somewhere behind them, loudly enough that it breaks Will from that line of thought. He turns to look at the dog sitting at his feet, head lowered and tail mostly between his legs. A quick glance around the room confirms that the rest of the dogs seem just as anxious–no, frightened, actually. 

“I’m sorry, Will,” Trey says, drawing his attention again, “I only left ‘cause there wasn’t any food. I didn’t eat last night ‘cause I was waitin’ for you but I didn’t remember when you said you’d be home.”

That’s because he _didn’t_ say.

“Christ, I am such an asshole,” Will says, releasing Trey and stepping out of his space.

Trey doesn’t bother refuting that claim as Will returns his food. Will’s honestly glad they both know it to be true. He doesn’t think he can handle any more undeserved forgiveness; not so soon after what happened last night with Hannibal.

Will pauses in his attempt to console the dogs (because he doesn’t know where to begin with Trey) as he’s hit with another uncomfortable realization: he’s treated Hannibal just like this before, too–shouting in his face, slamming him against the nearest flat surface and threatening to bite him for no real reason other than he felt like it. Only, he didn’t regret it so much back then. Why is it different now?

Will groans, raking his fingers down his face while avoiding his damaged lip as he kneels on the floor between Jack and Buster. He has to do something about this before he hurts someone again.

_‘It wasn’t a one-time thing. It will happen again. You’ll let your guard down and next time it’ll be someone you love…’_

She’s right. She’s nothing more than a dream manifestation of his guilt, but she’s right. Everything in Will’s recent actions points towards him killing someone like that again. All that time and effort spent proving to a world of betas who couldn’t care less about him–except when he’s useful to them–that he’s just as human as the rest of them, and still he acts just like the monster they say he is.

_‘Perhaps even Birthright couldn’t handle the kind of monster you could be.’_

Will is overwhelmed by the strength of the longing he feels for Hannibal at the memory of those words. It’s unbelievable how much they angered him at the time, now that he believes he’s beginning to understand the meaning behind them. What Hannibal intended for the words to make Will feel isn’t the point now; the reason behind him intentionally saying such things out of nowhere and then dropping them just as quickly, is. There’s no way it’s just because he thinks Will’s anger is attractive.

_‘I am not like all the others, Will. I do not recoil. I want no piece of you if I cannot have the whole of you.’_

“Fuck…” Will curses under his breath, amazed at what he hopes is a correct assessment of Hannibal’s intentions towards him.

“Um, Will? Are we good?”

Will turns to look at Trey perhaps a bit too quickly as the skittish omega flinches hard. He looks like he’s considering making a run for it, like he thinks Will is really going to hurt him. Will guesses he can’t blame him for it. He’s not exactly sure what he’s capable of these days.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re good,” he says, “I’m sorry. I’ve...got a lot going on right now. Had a bad morning and a worse night. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that.”

“Oh,” Trey laughs nervously, “Yeah, I feel that. Been a bad week for me.”

They eye each other awkwardly for a minute until Will remembers Trey isn’t running because he hasn’t been paid yet. Will goes to the kitchen to snatch his wallet off the kitchen table, then returns to hand Trey the $200 he owes him plus an extra $150 for the asshole tax he just instated.

“You can stay and eat your food if you want,” Will suggests though he knows there’s no chance of Trey accepting, “I can drive you home after.”

“You don’t, uh. You don’t gotta drive me. Bill’s got no problem comin’ right back, he been needing the money…”

Trey calls the guy back on his phone, letting Will know it’ll only be ten minutes max. Will curses himself for scaring the omega to the point that he’s acting like there’s a countdown happening before Will gets angry and threatens him again. Part of him wishes there were such a thing, so he could predict these outburst and plan accordingly. Hannibal is usually right about everything, including even things he seems to have next to no information on, but Will cannot accept mere stress as the reason behind all of this. His dad was always stressed and even he didn’t act out this much without some kind of catalyst. 

Once Trey’s out the door, Will comes to the decision that he needs to set up an appointment with someone other than Hannibal. He’s getting exponentially worse over time and no matter how much he loves Hannibal and values both his personal and professional opinions, this is clearly one of those rare cases where he just isn’t right. Will needs a second opinion on his condition from someone he isn’t romantically involved with; someone who will lay it out straight for him. He gets out his laptop and sits with it on the edge of his bed, too focused now to scold Buster for hopping on and curling up beside him. He goes through a list of the highest-rated doctors nearby and in D.C. but ignores those in Baltimore, so he doesn’t have to deal with the possibility of running into Hannibal right before an appointment and having to explain. It seems silly, but he feels like he’s betraying Hannibal in a way by looking elsewhere for answers, like Hannibal is omniscient and all-knowing. He shakes the feeling away and finds somebody who seems decent enough on the outskirts of D.C., setting up an appointment online for this Friday, the ninth of December. Surely he can survive just five more days of whatever it is he’s going through. He’ll get something over the counter to help calm him down when he needs it and hope for the best–

Will’s phone vibrates angrily against the nightstand where it sits, nearly causing Will to drop his laptop as it starts to ring. Easily startled: another symptom to add to the list. He sets his laptop down on his pillow and pats Buster on the head before answering the phone call.

“It’s him,” Jack says.

∞

It is most definitely him, Will thinks as he examines the tableau before him. Even if he hadn’t studied dozens of Ripper kills over his time at Quantico, he would have pinned this as one at first glance. It has all of his stylistic flair and mocking disdain. There’s also the fact that he’s already seen two other Ripper kills in the past few weeks, making this one the last of the sounder. On second glance, however, this kill looks _eerily_ familiar.

On November 22nd, 1997, James Jeffrey, the leader of a biker gang, was horrifically murdered. Normally, the police would pass this sort of thing off as ‘bad blood’ with another gang, but this murder was too gruesome to be just another casualty of a gang war. The FBI was brought onto the case almost immediately, and a detective was able to determine from evidence both hard and circumstantial that the victim was killed by a member of Birthright. That man, a rather small alpha named Isaiah Johnson, looked nothing like the sort of person who could commit such a violent act. 

Isaiah castrated James and stuffed his testicles down his throat. He had bitten him repeatedly, somewhere around a dozen times on the back of his neck and around his throat. He presumably _ate off_ all the meat from around his chest and, because all that just wasn’t enough, violated his corpse as well. The statement Isaiah had been trying to make, as the detective had correctly guessed, was that even the biggest and toughest beta was no match for an alpha half his size. Because the evidence proved the first strike was in fact the bite on the back of the victim’s neck, Isaiah’s statement was torn apart and devoured by politicians and public speakers who had the ammunition to convince the general public that Isaiah wasn’t just a demented, troubled young alpha with a superiority complex, but that he was also a prime example of what happens when alphas don’t know their place in society. 

Birthright isn’t known for the intelligence of its members. It is known for attracting lonely and often white young alpha boys who’ve been disregarded and treated like trash by betas into its ranks. It attracts those who are searching for revenge, those who want to find meaning in a life they don’t understand, and those who want to be rewarded for things they would normally be punished for. Birthright aims to instill terror in betas and to place as many of its members in places of power as it possibly can. Its members associate only with other alphas whenever possible. They plan secret meetings and parties, terrorizing and even cannibalizing betas whenever the chance arises. They exclusively marry and mate with only the ‘best’ and most fertile omegas and, if there are any available, female alphas. An overwhelming majority of women understandably want nothing to do with Birthright, including alphas–even though Birthright members as a whole don’t dare to treat other alphas with the same disrespect they do betas or omegas.

This tableau reminds Will of the James Jeffrey case, yes, but it’s not an exact copy. It’s more of the Ripper’s own elegant remaster. Still, the Ripper has never copied another kill before. He’s clearly drawn some inspiration from classical works of art and literature, but Will isn’t seeing any other inspiration besides the obvious one. To make things even stranger, this sounder as a whole has been quite unusual when compared to all the others. Will has always considered the way the Ripper sees his victims as pigs to be fact, hence the ‘sounder’, but it seems like he’s trying to solidify this facet of his profile with his most recent kills. Normally, his victims all appear to be random without method or reason. The victims this time have all had reputations for being...unsavory. 

The first victim: a middle-aged, white omega woman named Jessica Kacie Redshaw, famed author of some infamous novel Will doesn’t care to remember the name of. She was found in an abandoned building in downtown Baltimore, once a thriving bookstore but now dilapidated and crawling with rodents. They found a copy of her novel where her heart should have been.

The second victim: A young, white beta college student named Peter Graves. There was nothing of note known about him besides a single DUI and unconfirmed rumors that he had sexually assaulted at least two other students. His body was riddled with glass shards from the bottles of various alcoholic beverages, and his liver and penis were missing. Will believes there to be more to his story, what with the way no one but his mother showed up to his funeral.

This victim, also a white beta, was a biker, an acclaimed spokesperson for a popular charity foundation, and an artist named George Brent. He was equally known for his abstract paintings as he was for his particularly negative and very public opinion of alphas. It’s safe to say that many betas aren’t fond of alphas outside of the bedroom, but George Brent’s outright hatred of the gender actually inspired numerous threats from Birthright both serious and not. Were Jack not so hellbent on catching the Ripper, this murder absolutely would’ve been passed off as a ‘he had it coming’ kind of scenario.

George Brent’s body is hanging upside-down, suspended by a rope which appears to be tied to an old, rusted hook attached to the ceiling of the warehouse. Just like the body of James Jeffrey, this one’s testicles have found a new home. His pectorals have been removed–surgically this time, rather than orally. There are also tons of messy bites all along his neck and throat. Upon stepping closer, Will can see that even the bites on his throat which probably killed him aren't very clean; there’s some kind of...desperation, in the torn flesh there.

Desperation is most certainly not a part of the Ripper’s modus operandi.

“There’s traces of saliva in the bite wounds. I don’t believe the Ripper would knowingly leave DNA evidence like that behind but there’s no way this isn’t him. Either he’s getting sloppy or he doesn’t think we’re going to find anything useful from this. What do you think, Will? Is the Ripper a member?”

Jack’s voice draws Will out of his thoughts, and then the clamoring of the crowd just outside the warehouse grows to a fever pitch. They both turn to look at it momentarily, and Will remembers Jack saying something along the lines of ‘media mismanagement’ and ‘fake news’ during their phone call earlier.

“It’s a total shitshow out there,” Beverly says as she comes into view from around the corner of a towering stack of pallets. 

“Lounds?” Will asks.

“Not this time, believe it or not. It’s a long story, but…hey, what happened to your face?”

“No time for stories right now. Have you found anything else?”

“Actually, yes. Before you can get too excited,” she says to Jack, who looks more hopeful than Will’s ever seen him, “They’re just rumors.”

The speed at which Jack’s face falls may have actually been funny were it not for the circumstances.

“Some anonymous tips were received last night about some supposed chaos at The Hub in D.C. A couple bad fights between VIP members, and something about Jeremiah Henderson going missing a little while ago.”

“He’s missing?” Jack asks.

“Was. He showed up at the bar again, without his usual bodyguard fellas, covered in blood and, I quote, ‘trembling like a preteen omega who’s been separated from his parents in a haunted house.’” 

“Well, that’s suspicious,” Will says, but he’s more concerned with the corpse dangling just behind them.

As Price and Zeller join Beverly and Jack in discussing rumors, Will tries his best to tune everything out and put himself in the Ripper’s shoes.

_George Brent is a vile man with vile opinions. He presents himself like some savior of society, like our current society is even worth saving. He ignores the struggles of those born differently from himself, of those born superior_ –

No, that isn’t right. The Ripper obviously didn’t agree with what George had to say, but Will isn’t getting Birthright vibes from this display. The Ripper is knowledgeable and refined, the Birthright worldview just...isn’t. It could be that he thinks alphas are superior but doesn’t agree with the way Birthright goes about in their attempts to tell the world that, but Will’s betting on the chance that the Ripper is more of an egalitarian. It makes sense for a killer with no obvious biases or particular tendencies towards certain types of victims. 

If Will’s totally honest with himself, this kill smells like another one of the Copycat’s kills just as much as it does like a Ripper kill. Both of them elevate murder to art, only the Copycat showed them the positive aspects of Hobbs’ kills. Will isn’t seeing anything positive in this work, but they could yet find something if they follow those rumors. 

There’s nothing Will can see to explain the bites, though. Like Jack said, leaving DNA evidence behind so casually doesn’t make much sense. Even if it doesn’t lead them anywhere now, it could be instrumental in the Ripper’s arrest if they ever find a real suspect. It’s mostly the desperation in the wounds that Will can’t quite get over, though. Nothing else about the body suggests it. It’s like someone’s taken the last piece from a completed puzzle and swapped it with a piece from another. It just doesn’t belong there.

There’s something off about the way the body is hanging as well, but Will can’t quite place his finger on it. The positioning is one of the most important aspects of a Ripper kill, and it’s possible the Ripper intended to show them that he thinks Brent’s views were backwards, or upside-down, but that doesn’t seem to be _all._ Will can’t read any other meaning from it, so maybe there isn’t any or maybe it’s functional. There’s no way to be certain.

“We’re taking Jeremiah Henderson in for questioning,” Jack says behind him, “I believe he has something to do with this. He may not be the Ripper, but if those rumors are true, he’s definitely involved in something. We’ll also be taking record of his bite pattern and saliva to see if either is a match.”

“It can’t be that easy.” Will says.

“You never know,” Jack says with a heavy shrug, “People make mistakes. Even if he isn’t the Ripper, he might be able to tell us something about him.”

“To answer that question earlier, I don’t think the Ripper’s related to Birthright in any way.”

“He’s just killed someone in famously Birthright style and you don’t think he’s a member?”

Will shakes his head.

“He’s probably an alpha, definitely someone who strongly disagreed with George here, but Birthright doesn’t become him. Think of all the racist bastards at Headquarters right now, how many of them do you think are Klan members?”

“I see your point, but the number definitely isn’t zero. I knew about Gavin since day one.”

“It’s not zero, sure, but it isn’t a hundred either.”

“Okay, so he’s an alpha who thinks he’s too smart for these assholes. Why replicate one of their most famous kills this way?” Jack demands.

“I don’t know yet. In true Ripper fashion, there just isn’t enough here to go on. I’ll have more answers for you when we figure out whose spit is in those holes, and maybe when we find out where Jeremiah’s been.”

Obviously in a better mood now than ever with so much potential evidence around, Jack thanks Will for his time and calls for everyone to disperse. The crowd continues to holler and shout at everyone with a badge. Most of them are demanding answers but others are yelling obscenities and blaming the police for George’s untimely death. Some of them glare at Will as he passes by, reminding him that he needs to quit forgetting to cover his scent when he goes out. Now more than ever, Will is grateful to be leaving a crime scene so quickly.

∞

Will’s heart is pounding so hard in his chest as he heads into his therapy session that he begins to wonder if Hannibal will be able to hear it. It’s totally nonsensical, but things haven’t been making much sense to Will as of late. Plus they’ve barely spoken since what happened Saturday night. Will is glad to have been busy with the most recent Ripper case as an excuse.

Hannibal opens the waiting room door and it’s like the floodgates have opened. Before the other man can properly greet him, Will’s pressing a firm kiss to his mouth. He pulls back quick enough that Hannibal has no time to react, uncharacteristically shy now on top of being anxious. Still, he feels an overwhelming need to apologize for his actions the last time they were together, so he does so while Hannibal closes the door. 

“It’s quite alright, Will. No need to apologize,” Hannibal says as he takes his seat across from him, “I am not one to harbor a grudge over such a thing.”

“I know,” says Will, “But I was a major asshole, and I still can’t say I know why.”

Before Hannibal can begin to reiterate the ‘stress’ thing he always falls back on, Will continues.

“But the reason doesn’t matter. Nothing can excuse my behavior then. You’ve been nothing short of amazing to me. You don’t deserve to be treated like that by anyone, least of all me.”

Will keeps his eyes on the rug, aware he’s long been forgiven but still too embarrassed to meet Hannibal’s gaze. If he’s looking at Will the way he imagines he is, he’ll only begin to feel even worse about what happened. 

Hannibal stands from his chair and comes close enough that his shoes enter Will’s field of view. The urge to look up now is overpowering, so Will gives in. He doesn’t have much time to register the look on the other man’s face before it’s much too close, and then Hannibal is kissing him back. It’s soft and slow, rather chaste compared to their usual. It sweeps all of Will’s worries away like they were never there in the first place. Hannibal pulls back before long, but he doesn’t go far. He leans his forehead against Will’s and cards a hand through Will’s hair, gently releasing when he snags one of his fingers on a knot. Will curses himself silently for forgetting to brush his hair earlier.

Without saying anything, Hannibal gives Will a warm smile and retreats to his seat. Will isn’t sure, but he thinks that was Hannibal’s way of telling him he loves him. The thought makes Will duck his head again in embarrassment as he begins to feel the blood warming his cheeks. 

It’s odd; that and Hannibal’s secrecy with regards to his secondary gender. Will may have his doubts at times, but right now he can feel the love and adoration rolling off of the other man in waves. Hannibal doesn’t seem like one you would expect to be non vocal about something so obvious. Will can’t fathom the reason, but he’s too busy appreciating the fact that someone loves him at all to really be concerned about it. He’s content to bask in this warmth like a sunbathing cat, but Hannibal ruins it just a short moment later.

“That’s enough of our relationship, I think. Let’s talk about your killers now–starting with Eldon Stammets, since we never spoke much on him after the incident.”

Will frowns, annoyed by the ease with which Hannibal shifts into what he calls ‘Total Professional Mode.’ Hannibal’s lucky Will loves him, or he would never have agreed to speak of such things with him willingly.

“Well,” Will begins, “I’m glad he’s dead. Not sure what else you expect to hear.”

Hannibal nods, merely observing Will for a minute. If it were anyone else, Will would have demanded to know what their problem was. Hannibal, however, has a way of watching that is somehow neither comfortable nor discomfiting.

“Are you glad you killed him?”

Will nearly flinches at the nonchalant way Hannibal tosses that out there, but he catches himself just in time.

“Considering that’s how he became dead, yeah. I guess so.”

Hannibal nods again, then takes a deep breath like he’s preparing himself for what’s to come.

“Are you satisfied with the way you killed him?”

“What do you mean?” Will asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows. It wouldn’t do to act out again just minutes after his apology for the last time he acted out, even if Hannibal really does invite it this time.

“If you could go back to that very moment where you held the man’s life in your hands, would you choose the same path? Would you savagely tear him apart with tooth and nail, or would you choose a different method? Perhaps one considered to be more...humane?” 

There’s nothing even approaching judgement in Hannibal’s eyes, and yet Will is overburdened with the need to defend himself, and not just for Stammets’ death. There’s no way Hannibal knows the rest–not the specifics, at least–but Will feels like a defendant on the stand before the only truly neutral judge to have ever existed, and with a jury crammed full of people who would see him executed no matter what he says. Either he lies to preserve his dignity and just maybe keep himself alive, or he tells the truth and faces certain death with only the judge’s respect as a souvenir. 

Only, Hannibal isn’t his judge, Will reminds himself. He’s neither jury nor executioner, either. He’s Will’s therapist and the only real friend and lover to stick around even after seeing how fucked up Will really is. He’s the only one whose honest opinion Will always wants to hear. Will owes him his own at the very least.

“No,” he says, shaking his head.

Hannibal lifts a pale, nearly invisible eyebrow in a silent invitation to continue.

“No, I wouldn’t change anything. I wouldn’t–actually, let’s walk that back a bit. I wouldn’t change anything except my ability to remember what I did after I did it.”

Both eyebrows go up this time.

“You still don’t remember?” Hannibal asks.

“Nope. I remember going red and running through the trees for a bit, and then...nothing.”

Hannibal frowns down at the floor like he’s deliberating something, looking far more conflicted than Will has seen him before. Just as Will is about to ask him what’s wrong, Hannibal looks back up at him, lacing his fingers together and swallowing nervously before speaking again.

“I could have stopped you,” he admits, “but I didn’t.”

Will isn’t sure what he means at first, confused as he is by Hannibal’s unusual demeanor.

“What do you mean?”

“I had him, Will. I took his gun while you distracted him. It was over.”

Will gasps aloud as the memory of that very event comes back to him suddenly. He sees Stammets with a gun to Hannibal’s head in the forest, then sees him flinch back hard as Hannibal kicks him and takes the gun.

_‘What do you think, Will? What should we do with him?’_

“You were just playing,” Will says, realizing it only as he says it, “You could’ve taken the gun from him anytime you wanted, couldn’t you?”

Hannibal hesitates long enough that Will knows he’s correct.

“You could’ve told me,” Will says, doing his best to keep his own growing anger at bay, “I worried about what you would think of me if I told the truth this whole time. Would’ve been nice to know you really didn’t give a shit.”

“I wasn’t sure what _you_ would think of _me_ ,” Hannibal admits, “If I admitted to you what part I played.”

“So you pinned it all on me instead,” Will huffs.

“I’m sorry.”

It could be either the way he acts like he can’t bear to look Will in the eyes or the simplicity of the apology that convinces Will to forgive him immediately. Regardless, Hannibal is good at this. Scary good. Enough so that Will knows he’s being manipulated, knows Hannibal knows that he knows, and yet he still can’t bring himself to care.

“It’s in the past,” Will says with a shrug, “I’m honestly glad you’re not concerned. You are my therapist after all. If anyone should have a say in whether or not my head’s all wrong, it’s you. So either I’m fine, or you’re just as messed up as I am.”

“Which would you prefer?”

‘Shouldn’t that be obvious?’ is what Will wants to say, but he doesn’t. Hannibal is being honest with him now; it would be rude not to return the favor, so he takes a moment to really think about it.

Obviously he wants to be alright. He wants to be normal, but does he really need to be? He isn’t very keen on fitting in, so why is he always trying so hard to do so anyways? The only people whose opinions he truly cares about don’t mind him being weird at all. Now that he thinks about it, Hannibal is actually pretty weird himself. Perhaps the two of them being messed up together wouldn’t be so bad a thing after all.

Because he honestly can’t decide, Will just shrugs. He may be imagining it, but he thinks he can see the points of Hannibal’s fangs poking out from his gums just a bit when he smiles in response. Will has never dared to imagine what it feels like to be bitten by another man before–alpha or omega, but he’s definitely curious now. He’s not sure he’d ever ask directly, but he wouldn’t protest if Hannibal expressed interest in doing it.

It’s quiet for a minute while they study each other, something Will used to be uncomfortable with but has gotten used to. He wishes he could see inside the other man’s head for a mere glimpse of his thoughts. Hannibal’s mind is like the ocean to him, he’s not often invited beneath the surface of it, but what he’s been allowed to see so far has been both beautiful and terrifying. It’s a shame they aren’t an alpha and omega pair, or this wish of his may have eventually been fulfilled. He hasn’t really thought much about it before, but now he’s envious of those bonded pairs he’d seen on shitty reality TV shows as a kid. Those shows wouldn’t have existed in the first place if the pairs didn’t spend so much time complaining about the threads of their partners’ intrusive thoughts, ungrateful as they were.

“Where are you now, Will?” Hannibal asks with the same genuine curiosity he always does. Will thinks he could enjoy being bonded just as much as himself.

“Just reminiscing,” Will says, certain that Hannibal would rather the conversation not drift back to their relationship again.

Sure enough, Hannibal steers the topic back onto the road with aplomb.

“And what about this Birthright killer? I’ve heard wind of there being issues with the investigation at headquarters.”

“Just a blackout, some problems with the power grid. It reset a lot of the machines so they’re all still trying to see what data they lost and what can be recovered.”

“Rather unusual timing for such a thing,” Hannibal suggests with a smile.

“Definitely,” Will grins back at him, “The whole thing’s a Birthright conspiracy against the government. Before long, they’ll be shutting down entire cities, dragging betas out of their homes under the cover of darkness, and serving them up at an alphas-only all-you-can-eat-buffet.”

“Would you be opposed to joining me for dinner there one day?” 

“Hannibal Lecter, at a buffet? If you’re cooking, sure.”

They both laugh, and Will’s attention is drawn once more to Hannibal’s teeth. There’s no hint of his fangs now, if there even was any earlier, and Will wonders why he’s only gotten to see them extended once.

“How do you feel about it?” Hannibal asks him.

“Huh?” Distracted, Will thinks (or perhaps hopes) Hannibal’s read his mind for a second.

“How do you feel about this particular case? About Birthright as a whole?”

Will wants to tell Hannibal he already knows the answer to that second question, but when he thinks about it, he realizes he never really said anything on it the last time it was mentioned. All he did was get angry and lash out. He’d still rather not talk about it if at all possible, but Hannibal’s been very open with him this session. It seems like it wouldn’t be very polite for Will to hold back now. May as well get the difficult part over with first.

“I wasn’t entirely truthful before,” Will admits, “When I told you about my dad. I said he agreed with Birthright but wasn’t a member. He was.”

Hannibal sits up a bit straighter in his chair at that. The absolute focus on his face nearly deters Will from continuing, but he’s too far in now to quit. Hannibal will never leave him alone about it if he does.

“I told you what my dad taught me to say when I was real young and started to question why he was gone so often. He told me, ‘Son, your daddy’s a part of somethin’ real important, somethin’ real special. Folks around here, though, they don’t agree wit’ it. The government’s tricked all of ‘em, told ‘em nothin’ but lies ‘bout everything under the sun. They believe it ‘cause they’s scared, and ‘cause they’s the ones we’s fightin’ against. So what I’m needin’ you to do, boy, is when somebody’s not mindin’ their business, and they’s askin’ you ‘bout what your daddy’s been up to–your daddy, Will, he talkin’ to those Birthright fellas? You tells ‘em your daddy knows who they is but he ain’t talkin’ to ‘em. You tells ‘em your daddy gets what those fellas are sayin’ but he don’t get along with none of ‘em, hear me? You tells somebody half the truth and not a whole lie ‘bout anything, boy, and won’t nobody ever know what you ain’t want ‘em to know,’” Will says, letting his original Louisianan accent show through in an attempt to recreate his dad’s for the sake of authenticity.

“I must confess I’ve not heard that sort of accent before.”

“Never been that far South, I’m guessing,” Will says, in his normal accent this time.

“I’m not particularly fond of the grammar, but I enjoy the sound of the phonetics themselves,” Hannibal admits.

“Fancy European man’s fond of a southern drawl, who’d’ve known?” Will teases in an exaggerated version of his old accent.

“Certainly not myself,” Hannibal admits, “But indeed, I wouldn’t mind hearing it more often.”

“Sure thing, sugar,” Will says with a wink, feeling a little ridiculous but enjoying himself nonetheless.

“So, you knew your father was a Birthright member. Did he involve yourself in any way?” Hannibal asks him after clearing his throat.

Will swallows uncomfortably, knowing full well that Hannibal isn’t any more likely to judge him for what he says next than he is anything else Will has already told him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it; the feeling of hesitant relief he gets whenever Hannibal receives damning information about him. No matter how much Hannibal says otherwise, Will knows there _has_ to be a line in the sand somewhere, and that he’ll end up leaping straight over it one day if he isn’t careful. Hannibal looks like he already knows the answer–or at least part of it–so Will continues.

“Not until I presented,” he says, “Birthright recruits young but they only recruit those who’ve presented. That goes for the kids of its members, too.”

“Were you curious?” Hannibal asks him, “About what your father did at such an organization? Did you feel the need to satisfy that curiosity, or were you initiated against your will?”

“Both, I guess. I wanted to know why he was so obsessed with them–why he’d leave me alone for so long without food, why he lost so many jobs soon after he got them, why we never stayed in one place for very long. I knew on some deeper level how horrible they were; I’d seen evidence of the things they’d done and the people they’d hurt, but I wanted to see for myself. Only, they brought me in before I was ready and wouldn’t let me leave once I realized it really was as bad as everyone said.”

“Members stay for life,” Hannibal says, “Or face the consequences. Speaking of, what were they? I assume you’ve not been a member for quite some time.”

“I got lucky. Some shit went down, a lot of infighting between top members in the chapter and a lot of dirty money getting passed around. There was an all-out war between my dad’s side and the other, ‘softer’ side, as dad called them. Someone was stupid enough to bring explosives and brought the whole building down on everyone. The few who survived the fight died in the hospital. It all happened while I was at school, didn’t hear about it until I got home and turned the TV on.”

“How did you feel then?”

“Relieved,” Will admits, “And a little scared. My dad didn’t provide a whole lot for me, but he was still sort of there if I really needed him. I didn’t want to end up homeless or at an orphanage, so I broke into my dad’s safe and used the money to get to an old buddy of his. Ex-buddy, more like. They stopped talking once it was obvious what my dad was involved in. He was quick to take me in, said he’d wanted to ever since he found out. He never legally adopted me, but no one dared to say anything to him about it since he was a sheriff.”

“I’m assuming that’s how you got into the police force.”

Will nods.

“New Orleans.”

Hannibal hums at him, seemingly content with the answers Will has given him. When he glances down at his watch, Will does the same and is amazed by how much time has passed. 

“Seems we went over our allotted time a bit,” Hannibal says as he stands.

He offers Will a hand, subtly showing off his strength as he pulls him to his feet.

“Time passes quickly when you’re enjoying yourself,” Will suggests, realizing it to be true this time only as he says it. 

“Indeed,” Hannibal says, then kisses Will the same way he did at the beginning of the session, “When next we meet, I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?” Will asks, immediately curious.

“Next time,” Hannibal emphasizes his words with another kiss, and then he’s gently ushering a reluctant Will out the door.

∞

On his way to the lab the next day, Will receives an unexpected phone call from Trey.

“Hey, something wrong?” Will asks, desperately hoping Trey isn’t about to cancel his dog sitting job for good.

“Um, yeah. With me, not, uh, not the dogs. Not that I’d know, ‘course, since I’m not even there–”

“You alright?” Will asks, concerned with the way Trey is verbally tripping over himself.

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay. I mean I will be, but there’s sort of been an emergency. I just wanted to, um, let you know that I won’t be able to watch the dogs for a little while. ‘Cause I’ll be in the hospital.”

“The hospital? Did you hurt yourself?”

Will pulls into the parking lot, turning the car off but staying in it until the call’s been ended. Whatever it’s about seems personal; the least Will can do is keep it between the two of them.

“No–yeah. I mean, sorta.”

“How do you…’sorta’ hurt yourself enough to have to go to the hospital?” Will asks, genuinely confused.

The line goes quiet for a minute, enough for Will to have to pull the phone away from his ear to check that the call hasn’t actually disconnected.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, Will, I’m still here. I’m–okay, let me just…”

There’s the sound of footsteps, then of a heavy door closing. Whatever it is must not be so bad if he’s walking around on his own.

“We got carried away and, uh...I tore up my cloacal wall real bad,” Trey whispers just loud enough for Will to hear him through his phone’s speaker.

“...Oh,” Will says, for better lack of words, “Well, hope you get it fixed soon.”

“Yeah. They gave me something in the waiting room so it don’t hurt too much right now, but me and Christie been here almost three hours already.”

“Christie?”

“Yeah, my girlfriend,” Trey says, “You saw her once, she used to buy venom from me. Now she gets it for free.”

“That shy blonde alpha?”

“She ain’t shy in the bedroom,” Trey says with a hearty laugh.

“Ohhh, I see. She’s the reason you’re there. Good of her to stay with you instead of just bailing,” Will says.

“She’s not that kinda alpha,” Trey says.

Will knows it wasn’t an insult, nor was it directed at himself, but he feels the sting regardless.

“Happy for you,” Will says, “I’ll figure something out while you’re gone. Thanks for letting me know, and I hope somebody calls you in soon.”

“Yeah, thanks for understanding, Will. Bye.”

Trey ends the call, and Will takes a moment to refresh his memory of what the cloacal wall actually is. It shouldn’t matter, really, especially when he’s needed in the lab right now, but it’s bothering him that he can’t quite understand how Trey damaged his. He googles the term on his phone, ignoring all the definitions in favor of tapping the ‘images’ option so he can see a diagram.

It’s as he thought; the location of the wall makes it difficult to imagine someone’s partner damaging it during normal intercourse. This Christie must be a totally different girl when it’s just her and Trey.

As Will’s phone starts to ring with a call from Jack, Will hurriedly unbuckles himself and exits the car. He doesn’t bother to answer the phone, waiting until Jack’s sent to voicemail to send him an ‘Already here’ text message. He doubts Jack will complain much, seeing as how Will answering the phone would only slow him down at this point.

“Alright, I’m here,” Will announces as he steps into the lab, accepting a pair of latex gloves from the nearest tech, “What do we have?”

“About time,” Jack says, gesturing for Will to step closer to the once-hanging body.

“Cause of death is blood loss,” Jimmy says, “From the bites.”

“The removal of his pectorals and stomach was done post-mortem,” says Brian, “As is usual for the Ripper. What happened to your mouth?”

Will had thought the wound had healed enough for him to take the bandage off, but that’s apparently not true if Brian can so clearly see the scabs from where he’s standing.

“Bit myself,” he says without further explanation.

“Okaaay...so what’s especially interesting here is actually the rate at which he bled out,” says Brian, directing everyone’s attention to a board on which hangs a photograph of the body at the scene two days ago, “Despite the amount of bites and the depth of each one, it would’ve taken much longer for this guy to die from just that. Turns out he was actually hanging upside-down already when he was bitten.”

“Huh.”

“‘Huh’ is right. Kind of odd for a guy like this to hang a body upside-down and chew on his neck like that. He would’ve had to have been below him to leave marks like that.”

Almost like he was an animal being fed.

“What do you mean?” Jack asks, implying Will accidentally said that thought aloud.

“I mean it’s like George was being dangled above some animal snapping at him. It would explain why the bites are all so different.”

“But it’s clearly a human bite pattern,” Beverly says, “So are you saying someone else hung him up? To watch him be killed?”

“I thought we agreed this was the Ripper,” Jack says.

“I still think it is,” Will tries to explain, “I mean, I still think this is a Ripper display. I’m just not so sure the Ripper is the one who _killed_ George anymore.”

“You think he’s working with someone now?”

“No, it’s not like that. I see desperation in those bite wounds, like whoever left them had no choice. There’s not much missing from that area, so I don’t think they ate anything. It could be that they were forced to do it. The Ripper wanted to copy the original kill, put his own spin on it, but he couldn’t risk leaving DNA evidence like that…”

“So he got someone else to bite him,” Beverly completes his sentence.

“Exactly,” says Will, a sort of epiphany coming to him, “Was there any venom in the wounds?”

“Barely,” says Jimmy, “Nowhere near enough to be intentional.”

“As the Ripper intended,” Will says, “The big problem with Isaiah Johnson’s ‘statement’ was that the very manner in which he was able to overpower James was a direct contradiction to it. He basically cheated by sneaking up on James and biting him before he had time to react. It wasn’t fair.”

“You think having a guy be tied up and dangling from the ceiling is more fair?” Brian scoffs.

“He probably wasn’t tied up when the Ripper got to him,” Will suggests, “And we don’t know what state the other guy was in, if there was another guy. Think about it: when have we been able to come even close to getting a cohesive victim profile together for the Ripper? This is the first time we’ve seen a set with clearly identifiable similarities. The Ripper, at least now, doesn’t tolerate what he considers rude or bad behavior. It’s entirely possible he’s punishing both George and this mystery alpha for what basically amounts to two sides of the same coin.”

“Both sides of the debate, you mean?” Beverly asks.

Will nods.

“So, the Ripper may not be Birthright, but this other alpha could be? Is that what you’re saying?” asks Jack.

“Yeah. We just need to confirm if–”

A harsh beeping sound draws all of their attention. Jimmy rushes over to the computer it came from, leaning over to read the screen.

“Well, what do we know,” he says, grabbing a sheet of paper as soon as it comes out of the printer, “Our mystery alpha is a mystery no longer!”

He hands the sheet over to Jack, who’s at his side in just a couple seconds.

“Jeremiah Henderson.”

“It’s really him?” asks Beverly, stepping closer to peek at the DNA analysis results, “Well I’ll be damned!”

“Mighty convenient we took him into custody yesterday,” Jack says, “Now that we have this, he should be a little more open to conversation than he was before.”

“I was under the impression Henderson is the kind of guy to talk your head off,” Will says.

“Oh, he is,” Jack says, “Just not about the shit you actually want to hear.”

“So what’s our plan here,” Brian asks, “We going at it from the same direction plus these results, or what?”

“He’s more likely to give us something if it’s just Beverly and myself,” Will suggests, “Enemies or not, Birthright’s always more respectful to alphas.”

“Define ‘respectful,’” Brian says.

“He’s less likely to waste our time giving us that whole spiel on why alphas are superior, yada yada,” Beverly explains, “Might spend more time defending himself than trying to talk down to us.”

“Fine,” Jack says, “but I’ll be watching.”

The interrogation room they’re led to is of a temperature approaching comfortable for once, contrary to the visible sheen of sweat on Henderson’s brow. Will’s seen photos of him before, but none of them quite get across just how young he is to be the leader of a domestic terrorist group. He’s bald, fanged Birthright logo tattooed onto the top of his shiny, pale head. It also appears on his studded leather jacket half a dozen times. He has too many piercings on his face alone to count, and Will knows he’s got countless more elsewhere. It’s the eyes which draw the most attention, though: bright red like they would be during rut. They’re red in every appearance Henderson’s ever made, so it’s assumed he’s had them tattooed somehow as well, though he’s never publicly confirmed nor denied that. This is the appearance of a man who revels in the fear and hatred he inspires in others; that of a man who is so sure of himself he feels no reason to hide from anyone–and yet here he is, sweating nervously in an interrogation room chair with his cuffed hands clasped together before him.

“Jeremiah, this is Special Investigator Will Graham,” Beverly introduces him as he pulls out the second chair and takes a seat, “We all know why we’re here, so we’d like to just get straight to the point and–”

“Will Graham?” Henderson asks, two fanged cherubs flying up as he raises his tattooed brows in obvious surprise.

“Yes?”

Henderson narrows his eyes at him suspiciously, but doesn’t clarify.

“Ooookay then,” Beverly says, “So, we know you killed George Brent–”

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” Henderson demands, “I know a goddamn setup when I see one. ‘Specially when _I’m_ the one being set up!”

“No one set you up to shit, Henderson. You killed George Brent. We found your fucking spit in what was left of his throat,” Beverly argues, slamming the DNA analysis report down on the metal table between him and Will.

“Yeah, no shit. You guys didn’t exactly leave me any other–”

“You guys?” Will asks, an idea slowly growing shape in his head.

“Especially you!” Henderson accuses, jabbing a finger at him, “You’re gonna fucking regret showing your face to me after all this is over with!”

“For the last time, Henderson, there’s no goddamn government conspiracy going on! You killed a guy who made a living on rightfully calling you out on your bullshit and now a lot of people are upset that he’s dead. If there’s something more to the equation, You. Have. To. Tell. Us,” Beverly enunciates, “Instead of just pointing fingers at people and making shit up!”

“What is it about me, specifically?” Will demands, “You looked surprised to hear my name. Why shouldn’t I be here? I haven’t been briefed on your conversation with Jack; I have no idea what you’re talking about...”

“Yes, you fucking do–”

“Christ, just _pretend_ that I don’t then!” Will shouts, clearing his throat awkwardly as Beverly flinches back, “Just. For all of our sakes, please just let us get this over with. Start from the beginning. Tell us what happened.”

“It wasn’t–”

“I know it wasn’t just you,” Will says, “Someone made you do it, right? You think I was involved somehow. I wasn’t, but I’m not here to argue about that. I need you to tell me what the hell happened so Crawford will be satisfied and I can go home to my dogs, okay? Okay.”

It’s a cheap tactic: establishing a point of connection over a shared passion. Will is simply too aggravated to care.

“Dogs?” Henderson asks, the tiniest amount of tension leaving his shoulders, “How many?”

Beverly rolls her eyes but doesn’t try to interrupt, choosing instead to move to the furthest corner of the small room, crossing her legs as she watches the two of them intently.

“Seven,” Will says, “All strays. Can we get back to the topic at hand please? I didn’t get anyone to watch them today.”

“Fine,” Henderson concedes. 

Even someone with as many horrible, glaring faults as him must have one redeeming quality, Will supposes.

“It was a perfectly normal, boring evening at The Hub. I had this bomb-ass omega going down on me when my right-hand man Frank starts pounding on the door. Obviously I told him to leave us the fuck alone, but he kept going on about some seedy-looking guy with a briefcase being there to see me. I told him I didn’t know shit about some guy, told him to piss off, then he came right back two minutes later telling me this guy wasn’t gonna leave until he talked to me, kept saying it was something real important I’d wanna hear. At this point I was mostly just pissed ‘cause my girl kept getting distracted, so I told her to wait there and went out to beat some sense into this guy. Only the guy was like a Kung Fu master or something, and he laid me out on my ass in front of everybody. I had half the mind to just get somebody to shoot the guy, but then he told me he came to do business, said his boss had some real solid info on what some defectors were up to.”

“This guy, what did he look like?” Will asks.

“Tall, probably six-four, six-five. He was blond and wore a nice pinstripe suit, a fedora, and a dark pair of ray-bans.”

“Your bouncers just let a guy like that walk right in?”

“They damn well know they shouldn’t have _now_ –the twenty grand he gave me magically disappeared by the time I got back and everybody swears it wasn’t them.”

“He paid you?” Will asks, confounded by this turn of events.

“Yeah, I know how it sounds. But I wasn’t gonna go meet his boss even for the money if he couldn’t prove his boss really had something, you know? So I asked him for proof and he brought up the death of the southern chapter in Atlanta…”

Henderson’s story continues, but Will can’t quite hear him over the sound of the static from the TV, the sound of the explosions as they went off, shaking the very ground beneath his feet as he crawled under his schooldesk, and the sound of his dad’s desperate, muffled groans beneath the cold hospital pillow. 

“...so then he pulled out this police badge, said it belonged to the only one who survived that shitstorm. The kid of one of Grant’s men, who defected and went to work for the New Orleans police department of all places: Will Graham.”

Someone must be messing with the thermostat again because it’s suddenly very, very cold as Will stares at Henderson in horrified disbelief. He can’t even enjoy the miniscule amount of relief he should have gotten at the way Henderson looks like he’s finally understood that Will had no part in this conspiracy of his.

“What the hell are you saying? Will, what is he saying?”

Will can hear Beverly speaking, but he isn’t sure how to answer. He can’t seem to get his face to move, even. Henderson’s grinning now as he leans back in his chair, clearly amused by the turn this has taken.

“My men still have the badge,” he says with a shrug, “thought it might be useful. Anyways, I’d heard of what happened then, obviously. I didn’t know the names of every member from way back then but I did some research and, sure enough, there were a couple Graham’s on the roster: Beau and Will. Real pretty boy, that Will. I’d have pegged you for an omega if I didn’t know no better.”

“I’m not...I wasn’t–” 

Will tries to defend himself, but what is there to say, really? Of course the other chapters kept records on each other. They may not hold up in court if it came to that, but all of Birthright would know about the southern chapter’s defector cop in an hour if Henderson’s people chose to share that info. The general public would know not long after if all of Birthright chose to share it with them in turn.

Fucking hell, why is this happening?

Beverly’s phone buzzing in her pocket is what finally pulls her undivided attention away from Will. She takes a second to read the message before walking over to Will with a solemn and somewhat distrusting look on her face. Will suddenly regrets having bothered to consider her something like a friend.

“Jack wants to see you,” she says.

Will squeezes his eyes shut with a resigned sigh, then stands reluctantly and follows Beverly back out of the room.

“Nice meeting you, Will,” Henderson says.

Will can hear the triumphant grin in his voice. It takes every last bit of self-control to do no more than hesitate in the doorway.

“You too,” Will says through grit teeth.

Jack meets them in the hallway, waving Beverly away and dragging Will along with him to his office. Too serious for the other side of the mirror, Will supposes. Such a comforting thought. 

“Is any of that true?” Jack asks, skipping straight to the point.

Rather than saying anything, Will chooses instead to stare at his own shoes.

“Goddamnit Will, look me in the eyes and tell me it isn’t true.”

There’s a speck of dirt on Will’s left shoe. He really wants to lick his thumb and wipe it off, but he’s pretty sure Jack would think it disrespectful. More so than he’s already being. Jack heaves a sigh, and then comes the sound of the leather of his chair squeaking as he plops down on it.

“I don’t know what to say, Will, other than you should take a break. Stay home, lay low for a while. We’ve still got Henderson for a while. We can find a way to get what we need from him without you.”

“How long is this _break_ going to be?” Will demands.

This isn’t the future Dream Jack prophesied.

“However long it needs to be to keep you and the bureau safe,” Jack says, “Look, if I had all the power here I’d keep you on until you begged me to let you go. But this will be passed on through the chain of command, Will. We can’t hide this. We can’t legally keep Henderson from tattling about you to his goons either, regardless of how much I’d love to personally sew his mouth shut until his trial.”

“So you’re firing me instead.”

“You’re just taking a break,” Jack repeats, “I understand and accept if you don’t want to now, but I’ve got to ask: could you make a record of all you’ve learned today, all the thoughts you have so far?”

He hands Will a pen and a spiral notebook opened to the first page. For a moment, Will considers refusing, leaving them with nothing much to go on. He considers starting his own investigation, hunting down whoever it is tarnishing his reputation and, to quote Jack, personally sewing his mouth shut.

He begrudgingly takes the items from Jack and writes down everything relevant he can think of. Just out of spite, he adds a few bullshit bullet points to the list as well. The most important part, that he’s no longer sure this is the Ripper (or at least the one they’re used to), is circled. He shoves the pen and notebook back into Jack’s hand and vacates the office.

∞

The rest of the day and Thursday pass rather uneventfully. Will’s anger at being put on leave fades quickly once he gets home and plays with the dogs for a couple hours. He texts Hannibal, letting him know that he’s free for an indefinite period of time. He must be quite busy, as he still hasn’t responded more than a day later. Will tries calling, but he’s sent to voicemail. He could just show up at Hannibal’s doorstep; he has a key for a reason. Only, he’s not so sure he deserves to be in Hannibal’s company right now, regardless of how much he would like to see him. Abigail, too.

He’s just about changed his mind when he gets a call.

“Hey, I was just about to–”

“Is this Mr. Graham?”

Oh. Not Hannibal, then.

“Ah, yes. Sorry, who’s calling?”

“This is Dr. Bennett’s office, we just wanted to confirm your appointment in one hour.”

“Oh, yes, right, my appointment. Wait, one hour? It’ll take me at least that long to get there. You couldn’t have reminded me earlier?”

“I’m sorry, sir. The automated system should have sent you a text reminder yesterday. Unless otherwise instructed, all of our reminder calls are made an hour before the appointment time. Since you have already paid the additional fee for this slot, I’m sure the doctor wouldn’t be too upset if you were to be a little late.”

Well shit, there is indeed an automated text from the doctor’s office in his messaging app. It’s a shame Will has had those automatically sent to a spam folder for years.

“Okay, I’m on my way now,” Will says, holding the phone against his ear with one shoulder as he shrugs into his pants.

“We’ll see you soon. Goodbye!”

Thankfully, the roads are totally dry today. There isn’t much traffic and there aren’t any bored cops for Will to bamboozle either, so Will manages to make it to Dr. Bennett’s office in record time.

“Good morning! Do you have an appointment?” asks the dark-haired, ostensibly alpha male receptionist as soon as Will comes through the front door.

This place certainly looks like it charges the exorbitant fee Will reluctantly shelled out: all shiny hardwood floors, dark leather and stainless steel furniture, and a fake fireplace seven times the size of Will’s real one. The holographic flames are so mesmerizing Will nearly forgets to respond.

“Uh, yes, I do. Ten o’clock with Dr. Bennett.”

“Will Graham, then? You made it here pretty fast for someone who lives so far away.”

“Cop privilege,” Will says without humor, “I’m guessing you’re the one I spoke with earlier. Not often I see an alpha with a job like yours.”

“Not often I find an opening for an alpha at a job like this,” the receptionist retorts, “They made an exception, seeing as how most of our patients here are alphas.”

“Makes sense,” Will admits.

A door to the right of the front desk opens, and out comes another alpha with greying hair and eyes so dark they appear almost black.

“Will Graham, I presume?”

“That’d be me.”

“Dr. Gerald Bennett. Nice to meet you,” he says with a firm handshake.

“Likewise.”

“If you’ll follow me, please…”

The examination room Dr. Bennett leads him to is just as luxurious as the waiting room. Will had been expecting to lie down on one of those lumpy chair beds with the annoyingly crinkly paper on top, but there isn’t one in sight. Instead, he’s instructed to sit in what appears to be a brown leather reclining chair in the center of the room with various instruments and mechanical bits on either side of it. It feels like sitting on a cloud.

“Comfortable, huh?” 

“That obvious?”

“Our regular patients are used to it by now. The wealthier individuals who pass through don’t tend to think they’re anything special, either.”

“I paid the fees,” says Will, “What makes you think I’m not wealthy?”

“Well, I mean no offense but your clothes don’t quite meet the standards I have for our wealthy patients. There’s also the fact that you did indeed pay the extra fees to come in so soon, which, considering my wealthy clients do all they can to avoid such fees, suggests to me that you are simply in a hurry.”

Smart old man, Will thinks. Hopefully he’s worth the cost.

“So, what are we in for today?” Dr. Bennett asks as he snaps on a pair of gloves and retrieves a clipboard from the counter next to him, “I’ve seen the online form you filled out, of course, but the options it provides are rather limited, and I find it’s much easier to communicate these sorts of things in person.”

“Yeah, didn’t see my problem on the list. I’m having increased instances of abnormally intense and often unprovoked aggression first and foremost.” 

“Have you hurt someone physically during any of these periods?”

“No,” Will says, “Not yet. But I’ve come close on multiple occasions.”

Dr. Bennett nods, scribbling a note down onto his clipboard. What is it with doctors and unintelligible handwriting?

“Go on,” he says.

“There’s periods of...I don’t want to call it depression, exactly, but I’m much more prone to crying than I ever have been. Jealousy is another thing I’ve never really had before, but is now frequent these days.”

“Are you in a romantic relationship?”

“Yes. These feelings are all much stronger when I’m around my partner.”

“Do you ever feel particularly aggressive _towards_ your partner?” Dr. Bennett asks.

“No,” Will says, “...actually, yes. Not until very recently, I mean.”

“Sexual aggression?” asks the doctor unflinchingly.

“...Yes,” Will admits, “I’ve also sleepwalked recently for the first time in decades. Had nightmares about hurting my partner.”

“Sleepwalking isn’t good,” the doctor says with a frown, circling the last note he made, “How about your rut? Are you particularly aggressive then, do you experience any lapses in memory?”

“I’ve not had a rut since all this began. But yes, I’m too aggressive during rut to justify riding it out with someone. I tend to forget parts of it as well,” Will says, admitting only part of the truth.

He’s pretty sure this man wouldn’t try to report him, an FBI Special Investigator (on break or not) to the SGIC or the police, but he’s still reluctant to share some of his darkest secrets with a man he’s known for less than twenty minutes, especially when it isn’t absolutely necessary.

“Okay,” says the doctor with a sharp nod.

He replaces his pen and clipboard with a stethoscope and some small instrument Will can’t put a name to, then comes up close to Will.

“Open for me, please.”

Confused, Will opens his mouth as wide as he can. 

“This might sting just a bit.”

More than just a _bit_ , Will thinks as Dr. Bennett pricks his gums with the small instrument. Will’s fangs slowly slide out on their own, and he’s immediately curious what’s being done with them.

“Cold venom,” Dr. Bennett says like he’s read Will’s mind, “is what we call venom that hasn’t had time to well up in the ducts, where it’s prepared for injection. It tends to be more accurate when it comes to the sort of information we want to get from it.”

“Aaa,” Will says.

The doctor pulls back after a few seconds, having collected a miniscule amount of venom in the needle-like tip of his instrument. He takes it over to the counter and pours it into a vial, tapping gently to get every last drop out, then he comes back over with the stethoscope.

“Extend your fangs as far as you can, please.”

Will does, careful not to let them pierce his barely-healed lip again. The doctor whistles quietly at the sight of them, like he feels the need to stroke Will’s ego. He listens to Will’s heart for a moment, then steps back and instructs Will to sheathe his fangs once more. He returns with a needle and another empty vial.

“I’m going to take a sample of your blood, run it through the machine while you answer a questionnaire for me.”

“Alright,” Will says, rolling up his left sleeve so the doctor can feel for veins. 

He draws Will’s blood quickly and almost painlessly, then hands Will a sheet of paper and leaves the examination room. Some of the questions on the questionnaire are the same ones Will’s already been asked. He assumes the office needs an official record of his answers and not just some unreadable doctor’s notes. Some of the questions, however, are ones Will is immensely grateful the doctor didn’t ask to his face. Questions like:

_‘Do you feel like you should be physically restrained for the duration of your rut?’_

_‘Do you experience rut symptoms outside of your normal rut season?’_

_‘Have you unintentionally hurt someone badly during a rut?’_

_‘Have you_ intentionally _hurt someone badly during a rut?’_

Will marks either “no” or the “maybe/not sure” option for most of these, despite knowing the doctor will probably see right through it. At least his hesitancy to answer “yes” should communicate the sense of guilt he feels for what the questions imply.

_‘Oh, Will, why are you so concerned with feigning remorse? You clearly don’t feel any, or you would’ve turned yourself in all those years ago.’_

Suddenly rattled, Will just about throws himself out of the chair. There’s time, he thinks, to undo this. He can rip up the questionnaire he’s currently crumpling in his hands. There’s still time to come up with an excuse for why–

The door opens, and Dr. Bennett nearly hits Will with it.

“Oh! I’m sorry, didn’t see you there. I have good news and bad news,” he says.

Morbid curiosity roots Will to the spot.

“Good news first,” Will requests.

“Your blood told me why you’ve been so moody lately, and there’s an easy fix for it.”

“...Really?” Will asks, suddenly hopeful despite having no idea what the bad news could be.

“Yes. You simply need to stop letting your partner bite you so often.”

That’s...definitely not in the realm of things Will expected to hear. Perhaps he was too optimistic heading into this; the man clearly doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“My partner’s never bitten me,” Will says, “Not to my knowledge.”

“...Really?” Dr. Bennett looks even more confused than Will feels.

Will nods.

“Well, it isn’t my place to judge. Whatever it is you’re doing to take in such a high amount of omega venom needs to stop now, or you’re sure to develop heart problems in the near future.”

Omega...venom? Omega? Venom?

“What?” Will asks, genuinely stupefied. 

“There’s a dangerously high residual level of omega venom in your system,” the doctor explains, “you aren’t aware?”

“No...I, um?”

“Yes?”

“I kind of don’t know any omegas,” Will admits, “besides the kid who watches my dog. I am one hundred percent certain he’s never bitten me, and there’s no other way he would have…”

“Forgive me if my opinion here isn’t welcome, but you said your partner hasn’t bitten you. Are you sure your partner is not an omega?”

“I…”

The memory of that morning in Minnesota comes back to Will with such force that he just about falls back into the chair behind him. The coffee; that fucking coffee. Not just the coffee: every single glass of tea, wine, and whiskey from Hannibal has caused him to have some sort of reaction. It is glaringly obvious now, in hindsight.

“God, I am such a fool!”

Dr. Bennett makes the smart decision to say nothing as Will pulls himself together again, then tosses the questionnaire sheet at him before storming out of the building. The receptionist must see the rage on his face, as even he doesn’t dare to say anything about Will leaving before checking out. 

Will slams the car door as he gets in and drives nearly halfway to Hannibal’s house before he comes to his senses and takes the nearest exit. He pulls over into the parking lot of some empty playground–too cold for kids to be playing outside, he reckons. He sits in his car with the heat blasting on the highest setting until he starts to sweat a little, wondering what it even was he planned on doing when he reached Hannibal. When it becomes totally unbearable, Will turns the heat off. 

Amazingly, he can’t answer his own question. He has no idea what he was going to do, what he was going to say, or even really how he felt besides his default anger. Because that’s what it was, really: the default. It’s what he felt before he really thought this over; now that he’s beginning to use his brain, it’s all but faded. Omega venom is some powerful shit–he’s not sure why anyone would pay money to feel like this. Not for such a prolonged period, at least. Annoyed by how easily his thoughts are drifting away from the present issue, Will tries his best to focus and starts from the beginning.

First, Hannibal’s gender. No one besides Will ever even _implied_ Hannibal was an alpha. The man himself neither confirmed nor denied when Will made the assumption. He’s refrained from biting Will even when it seems like he really wants to. He’s never shown his red, may have even shown some gold. He’s bottomed for Will in every sexual encounter so far and has only recently shown any interest in topping. 

Then there’s the venom. Besides the obvious ones, omega venom has additional, more subtle side effects on alphas. Those could explain his urge to defend Hannibal at the construction site, despite trying so hard to ignore him just minutes earlier. They could also explain his urge to snap and hiss at everyone besides Abigail who gets too close to Hannibal whenever he’s around. They could explain his attachment to Abigail herself, and his jealousy of Alana, and the way he gets so easily overwhelmed by even the smallest displays of affection. Hannibal’s outright admitted to enjoying these sorts of reactions from Will already; it’s not so much of a stretch to consider he’s been mixing venom into Will’s drinks all this time. Even without the groundbreaking evidence Will’s just been provided with, this is the most logical scenario.

In conclusion: Hannibal Lecter is a fucking omega.

It’s no mystery why he’s held onto the secretive nature of their relationship, now that Will knows. He probably thought if he admitted this important piece of information to Will so early on, Will would end up spilling it to the rest of the world. A successful, powerful man like Hannibal Lecter being an omega would be the talk of the eastern seaboard for months. Will doubts Hannibal would mind it all that much were it not for the fact that there would be many more (and many worse) consequences to that information being public.

Yes, it’s easy to understand why he wouldn’t tell Will himself even after all this time. Will tries not to be that kind of alpha, but Hannibal inspires things in him that no one else ever has. Hannibal being an omega opens up many possibilities Will wouldn’t have been able to resist exploring. For example, the natural progression of an alpha/omega relationship almost always leads to a mating bond. That isn’t something most people ever get to experience and it also isn’t something one can easily hide from others. 

At the reminder of how much he’d been wanting a bond like that during their last session, Will feels his fangs beginning to tingle a bit. He can’t believe it’s something he can actually have now. His whole body feels like it’s electrically charged right now, almost like he needs to touch something metal to discharge himself.

“Fuck,” Will whispers aloud as his now fully extended fangs begin to drip. 

They aren’t the only thing that’s dripping, he realizes as he glances down at the tent in his pants. He couldn’t come up with a plan earlier when he was mindlessly angry, but he knows exactly what he would do now if he could: drive the rest of the way to Hannibal’s house, carefully so as to avoid getting pulled over while in such a state. He’d knock on the door first; no reason to spoil the surprise by letting himself in. If Abigail was asleep–no, even if she wasn’t, Will would take Hannibal straight to bed and fuck him senseless. He’d force Hannibal to bite him, shove his hand into Hannibal’s mouth and hold him down until he bit him. He’d go slow until the venom really set in, then he’d go as hard as he could until his knot inflated to the point that it tied them together, keeping his seed from gushing out. He’d bury his fangs as deep as they could go in Hannibal’s nape for so long that when Will’s knot finally deflated, Hannibal still couldn’t be separated from him for even a minute until the bond was finished.

Will groans at the thought, then flinches in surprise as he realizes his venom is no longer dripping but coming out in two steady, albeit tiny streams. His pants are uncomfortably wet at this point as well.

He could do all that. He doesn't think Hannibal would object to any of it except the mating bond. He could, but he really shouldn’t–not after what happened last week. He’s also aware that his thoughts on Hannibal’s gender aren’t very...respectful right now. It’s difficult not to be excited about it, though. Male omegas are exceptionally rare; rich and successful ones like Hannibal are practically unheard of. People pay thousands of dollars to have a male omega for just one night; tens of thousands and up for one’s hand in marriage, and yet Will feels like the one who’s getting paid. He can’t begin to fathom what the odds for a reclusive alpha like himself ending up with such an omega look like.

Will spends another twenty minutes fantasizing and debating before he decides he has to quit wasting gas and make a choice. In the end, it’s the realization that Hannibal would absolutely know something was up if he found Will on his doorstep in such a state that gives Will the strength to turn around and head home. 

He’s out of a job for now; there will be plenty of time to get Hannibal used to the idea of being his omega.


	6. Rage II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super long wait everyone, my life pretty much fell apart right after I posted the last chapter. I nearly became homeless twice and things are still not going well; I currently have $1.72 in my checking account. If you'd like to know how to help me (and get faster updates on my fics) check the end notes for my other social media links. 
> 
> That said, there's not much to warn for in this chapter that isn't already in the tags (be sure to check them again as I update every new chapter). I honestly felt like there just wasn't enough smut here for an omegaverse fic, so here's a chapter full of it!

The fundraiser is normally a lively event, but it’s especially animated this year. It could be as much because of the live band as it is the increased capacity of the new venue and guest list. While Hannibal preferred the old convention center, the new one is acceptable. It could use a bit more color, Hannibal thinks, but this modern style is tasteful and not too overdone. All the regulars are in attendance: including Alana, who Hannibal had spoken with only briefly upon arriving. The new guests, however, leave much to be desired. 

“...So I told her, I said, ‘Acappella renditions do _not_ count in any way.' She threw a fit, suggested I was acting like a ‘gatekeeper–”

“Artists have been making odes to and even remaking the classics for a millenia, have they not?” Hannibal interjects, glancing at the younger man’s name tag. Thomas Bentley.

The small group of newcomers congregating nearby glare at him like they can’t believe someone has dared to challenge such an easily contested opinion.

“On some scale, yes, I suppose. But whatever happened to originality? Nowadays, you go browsing for new material and half of what’s interesting is some remix or reimagining of a classic or, even worse, a perfect clone of someone else’s intellectual property,” says Thomas.

“There does appear to be a plague of sameness in the media these days, I’ll agree. However, I say it’s more the fault of a capitalistic society than it is that of the artists. People as a whole are more apt to spend on something they recognize in some way than they are to take a chance on something wholly unfamiliar. The market recognizes this and rewards those who follow.”

Thomas frowns at him, exchanging a doubtful look with the older woman at his side. He shrugs. “You have a point, but that certainly doesn’t explain Henley’s recent obsession with the Alphan Oracle.”

“I’m unfamiliar with Henley, but this obsession could very well be due to the novel’s recent spike in popularity. Or perhaps it’s quite the opposite, and his newest work is inspiring readers to visit his inspiration. Regardless, is it really so bad for the original to be getting attention again?”

Thomas sighs, shaking his head. “We’ll be here all night if we argue this point.”

“Well then I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree,” Hannibal concedes with a smile.

He leaves the group to regurgitate Thomas Bentley’s opinion back and forth in their little echo chamber then in favor of getting a drink. The white wine he chooses isn’t quite the same as that which he last poured for Alana, but it’s similar enough that he takes a moment to reminisce about the events that had followed.

Will was incredible then. He always is, really, but seeing him unhinged like that is rare to come by. The fact that it started out as a perfectly average, uneventful evening devoid of any real stimulus just makes it even moreso. Without a drop of venom to aid it, Will’s inner alpha successfully sniffed out and identified the desires of Hannibal’s inner omega. It’s unfortunate the game had to be cut short so soon. Had Hannibal let it continue, the two of them would have bonded before the hour was over. Will would know too much all at once and perhaps even enough to convict Hannibal by the end of the week.

As curious as he is to experience such a thing, bonding is much too dangerous at this point. Will is incredibly intuitive. He sees things no one else can; thinks about things no one else would dare to. Give him enough pieces and he’ll put together the most complex of puzzles without knowing it was one in the first place.

“You seem especially chipper this evening,” Gabriella says as she approaches Hannibal, breaking him out of his thoughts and clutching the front of her sheer evening gown to keep from tripping over it. “More so than usual, I should specify.”

“Is that so? You’ve a lovely gown, Mrs. Stewart. It complements your eyes,” Hannibal says, not-so-subtly changing the subject.

Gabriella chuckles, waving a dismissive hand at the compliment, but she doesn’t let him off so easily. “I mean it. Everyone’s noticed it; you’re practically glowing. They’re all too shy to ask, so I’m doing it for them. What’s happened since last we spoke?”

“Well, I finished both articles I’d been writing. I’ve come much closer to finishing my composition for the-”

“Oh come on, you know that’s not what I’m asking. Those are achievements, not the sort of life-changing events you look like you’ve had the joy of experiencing.”

Hannibal blinks at her, fighting the urge to spill everything. Despite what Will had said that last evening they were together, he doesn’t think Will would appreciate the extra attention. Especially now that he’s already got all eyes turned towards him.

Just as planned.

“I’m seeing someone new,” Hannibal admits. It’s all he can give away without endangering both Will and himself.

“Aaaaaaaaand?” Gabriella presses, raising an expectant eyebrow at him.

“And they’re a wonderful, albeit private person,” Hannibal says, smiling apologetically. 

“Well, that’s too bad. The ‘private’ bit, I mean. We’d all love to meet them if ever there comes a time where they’re willing to do so. Well, most of us.”

“Most?”

“I don’t think Mr. Peterson over there will be very pleased to learn you’re no longer single,” she says, gesturing at a tall, ginger-haired alpha peering up at them from behind the bar.

There isn’t anything particularly special nor intimidating about the man, other than his striking appearance, but Hannibal can feel the sudden gooseflesh at his nape. When his and Mr. Peterson’s eyes meet over the throngs of people between them, Hannibal can feel a dull throbbing in his gums as well. He recognizes that it’s probably no more than an instinctual omegan reaction to the unanticipated presence of a potential threat or mate, but he’s unnerved nonetheless by the strange alpha’s heated, unapologetic stare.

“He’s been watching you all evening,” says Gabriella. “Strange to see one of our state representatives here, don’t you think? Surely Marcello would have made quite a big deal out of it, had he known beforehand.”

“Strange,” Hannibal agrees, forcing himself to look away first. 

They chat for a few more minutes until another familiar voice calls for Hannibal’s attention. He and Russell debate the merits of Baltimore’s up-and-coming composers, and then once Russell has conceded defeat, Hannibal approaches Mrs. Stensland to inquire as to her progress on her latest novel. Every time Hannibal scans the crowd around him, Peterson is within view. More times than not, he’s staring at Hannibal just as intently as he was the first time Hannibal noticed him. It’s as irritating as it is concerning. Enough so that Hannibal quickly finds he can no longer focus on conversation. Hannibal decides it’s best to call it a night and head home before long. As much as he had been looking forward to mingling, it’s probably best to wait for another opportunity.

He bids the last group with which he had spoken to farewell and searches the room. For once, Mr. Peterson is not within sight. With a sigh of relief, Hannibal descends the staircase to the second floor. He checks once more and, after confirming the irritating alpha is indeed gone, steps out into the night.

He’s taken no more than two steps before his muscles tense up involuntarily. There’s movement in his periphery–just a blur, before something solid and heavy connects with the back of his head. The world fades to black before he hits the ground.

∞

The room in which he awakens is pitch dark.

The next thing Hannibal notices is the throbbing pain from his earlier attack, and that his hands appear to be bound to the chair he’s sitting on. It’s cold and drafty, and Hannibal can smell hints of various chemicals. More pressing, however, is the overwhelming alpha stench flooding his nostrils. He can feel so much as hear the man walk a circle around him twice, pausing briefly at random intervals before continuing. A wholly unnecessary intimidation tactic.

Hannibal’s sigh prompts the man to stop. He comes back around to stand quietly in front of him for another few minutes. Though it certainly isn’t having the intended effect on him, Hannibal still has to shut his eyes and focus on keeping his breathing level. His omegan instincts can be quite useful at times, but this is not one of them. Alphas like these will pounce at even the smallest sign of weakness. It’s best to keep his emotions under control until he can find a useful opening, should one ever show itself.

The mystery man clears his throat rather loudly. Hannibal successfully resists the urge to flinch at the sound, but the rhythm of his heartbeat falters ever so slightly against his will.

“Hannibal Lecter.”

Peterson, then–he overheard the man speaking to the event organizers earlier. Hannibal waits patiently for the rest of the sentence, but it doesn’t come. Peterson merely resumes his circling at a slower pace than before. Right as Hannibal begins to think he’s grown used to it, Peterson stops just behind him. He leans in uncomfortably close to speak directly into Hannibal’s left ear.

“Tell me everything you know about Will Graham.”

“Ah. I should have anticipated that,” Hannibal says.

He didn’t leave either the FBI or Birthright many leads to chase after. The private investigator Hannibal hired was not provided any information beyond that which he required to complete the job: a brief summary of Will’s history here, a few important locations there. Nothing that would link back to himself. If Birthright has managed to find the investigator, the most they would have gleaned from him is that he was hired anonymously by someone who seemed to know quite a bit about Will Graham. Birthright’s best move would be to interrogate someone close to Will, as the man in question is currently being guarded by a substantial police force. 

“Indeed,” Peterson says, returning to stand in front of Hannibal again, “You are his psychiatrist, after all. He must have told you something of his past.”

“His involvement with your organization, you mean.”

“Correct. So what did he tell you?”

“He wasn’t very forthcoming with information pertaining to that subject,” Hannibal says, deciding it safest to play along for now while he’s both metaphorically and literally in the dark. “The most he would offer at first was that his father identified with Birthright ideals to a degree.”

“To a degree,” Peterson scoffs, “Afraid of his past, afraid of your opinion. Ones who leave are always afraid. Never angry, definitely never remorseful. What else?”

Judging by the way the source of his voice seems to drop rather substantially, Hannibal assumes there to be another chair or some supportive surface on which Peterson is now sitting. He hesitates to answer, choosing instead to test his restraints. They’re quite tight, plastic zip cuffs by the feel of them. Not something Hannibal can easily work his way out of.

There’s a sharp point moving at Hannibal’s throat suddenly, forcing him to tilt his head back lest it puncture his skin.

“What else did he tell you?” Peterson repeats, holding the knife steady.

Hannibal swallows audibly, certain that it can be heard with what little distance is between them now. “He later admitted that was a lie. His father was a member, and Will himself was on track to become one.”

Peterson removes the knife but remains where he is. “Did he kill him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did Will kill his father?” Peterson clarifies.

It’s not something Hannibal has considered. From what Will told him and what the private investigator found about the incident, it seemed obvious that everyone had died either from the explosions or the wounds they received from them and the subsequent collapsing of the building. Will hadn’t implied anything more than his father’s death.

“He didn’t say,” Hannibal admits, “Only that everyone wound up dead.”

Peterson hums thoughtfully, then gives Hannibal some space. “We heard from that PI _someone_ hired; what happened to make Will leave the New Orleans police force. Couldn’t shoot, took a knife to the shoulder. I don’t think he had the guts to do it, killing his dad like that. Just wondered since the hospital suspected foul play. Supposedly.”

“No, I don’t think him capable of such a thing,” Hannibal lies.

“What’s most important to him? His job? His dogs? Friends? You?” Peterson snorts derisively at his own joke.

“May I ask why, first?”

“Defectors always come back if you scare ‘em enough. Do that, take away what they love most, dangle it in front of them like a carrot for a mule. Eventually they follow it right back to us.”

“Once a member, always a member,” Hannibal says.

“Mm-hm. So what is it? What’s Will Graham live for these days?”

Hannibal hums contemplatively, debating whether he should provide the truth. “Perhaps–”

Before he can get more than a word out, there’s a deafening bang from somewhere above them.

“FBI! Drop the weapon! Hands up where we can see them!”

A furious shout is followed closely by two gunshots, then too many to count. Peterson jumps to his feet. He has his arm around Hannibal’s neck a second later. There’s no time to protest before Peterson is choking him. With the amount of pressure he’s applying, Hannibal is out once more in just seconds. 

∞

The room he next awakens to is so bright it’s nearly painful. Hannibal squints against it, turning his head to see that Will is there at his bedside, squeezing his hand and frowning down at him.

“Good morning,” Hannibal jests, smiling genuinely.

“Good for whom? Definitely not yourself,” Will says gruffly.

“Quite so, actually. I’m always glad to see your face.” 

Will heaves a sigh, squeezing Hannibal’s hand once more before letting go. He leaves the room before Hannibal can ask where he intends to go. Curious, Hannibal examines his current state of being. It’s obvious by the monitors and tags that he’s been moved to the hospital, but when exactly did that occur? Had he been unconscious the entire time? What of Peterson, has he been apprehended? Has Will’s security team joined him in watching over his sleeping psychiatrist? 

Will returns, followed closely by a nurse in pastel green scrubs. He looks like he hasn’t slept a minute. Hannibal suspects his own recent complications to be at least part of the reason.

“Hello Dr. Lecter,” the young, auburn-haired nurse greets him, “We’ve kept you here for a few hours now, just to be safe, but there’s nothing to be worried about. You do have a mild concussion, however, so it’s recommended you don’t drive or engage in strenuous activity too soon. I would say you can leave whenever you like, but there are some gentlemen from the FBI here who would like to speak with you first.”

“Thank you, Miss...Rebecca,” Hannibal says, checking her nametag. 

She bows her head at him before removing a few various implements and leaving the room. 

“We need to talk,” Will says once she’s gone, “later, after I drive you home.”

Hannibal is about to ask for clarification, but Jack steps into the room with a couple fresh-looking agents trailing behind him.

“Glad to see you unharmed, Dr. Lecter.”

“Glad to be unharmed,” Hannibal says, carefully raising himself up to a sitting position.

“Yeah, no harm done. Just a concussion and a little kidnapping on the side,” Will mutters.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would think it’s me you’re upset with,” Hannibal says, eyeing Will curiously.

There’s something...off about him. Something subtle, lurking behind his eyes and only making itself known when he forgets to blink. It’s somehow familiar and yet altogether foreign at the same time.

“I–no, of course not. How could you even imply that? None of this is your fault. I blame a lot of people–” Will says, giving Jack a sidelong glance, “myself included–but not you. You weren’t supposed to get dragged into this. We should’ve…”

Will pauses, running an agitated hand through his hair. He looks like he means to speak again but is clearly at a loss for words. The look he gives Hannibal through his lashes isn’t dissimilar to that of a kicked puppy. Will’s gaze flicks towards Jack for just a second before he steps up close to Hannibal and wraps him in a tight embrace, resting his chin on his head. Bewildered by the sudden display, Hannibal hesitates to react at first.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Will mumbles into his hair.

Hannibal returns the embrace as best as he can from his position. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

Jack clears his throat, prompting Will to release Hannibal and take a few steps back.

“I guess now is as good a time as ever to tell you,” Will says to Jack.

“Tell me what?” asks Jack, sounding more than a little uncomfortable.

Will gives his entourage a pointed look, so Jack waves them away. They seem annoyed at the dismissal but neither dares to question it. Once they’re out of the room, Jack closes the door.

“We’re seeing each other,” Will says, surprising Hannibal by jumping straight to the point.

Jack’s irritated gaze darts between the two of them. “Seeing, as in…?”

“Romantically,” Will clarifies, reaching for Hannibal’s hand. 

Hannibal laces their fingers together, suspicious yet appreciative of the wholly unabashed Will before him.

Jack heaves an exasperated sigh, rubbing his temples with one hand. “For how long?”

“...Since before Hobbs,” Will reluctantly admits.

“Damn it, Will, did you even _begin_ to think about the consequences? You too, Hannibal. He’s your patient, for Christ’s sake! What were you thinking?”

“I regret to admit it, but I don’t have any valid excuses for you, Jack. Only that Will wouldn’t consider seeing any other psychiatrist besides myself, had I ended our professional relationship,” Hannibal says, hoping Jack will take the bait.

“If we’d told you early on, and Birthright found out, there’s a chance they would’ve seriously hurt him,” says Will, “But there’s no way they know how much he means to me. Yet.”

“This is one hell of a mess,” Jack says, shaking his head, “Speaking of–what did they want from you, if not just to mess with Will?”

“Peterson–my captor–wanted information. Will was correct in that I may have been in serious danger had they known about us; he wanted to know what they could use against him, what would work best as the proverbial bait.”

“So it _was_ him? Jordan Peterson, state representative?” Jack asks with a look of disbelief.

“I couldn’t see his face where he kept me restrained, but I recognized his voice when he spoke,” Hannibal explains, “He attended the fundraiser as well. It was brought to my attention that he had been watching me for much of the evening.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Jack says, “You’re very lucky that Alana noticed. She wasn’t sure it was Peterson exactly, but she called me twice. First at around nine just to be safe; said she didn’t like the way he was following you around all night. Then around 10:15 in a panic, saying both of you had vanished but that your car was still there. Security cameras outside the convention center captured the incident with the shovel and got us the license plate number of the car they took you in. Wasn’t too hard to figure they were taking you to Henderson’s second home once we caught sight of the vehicle again at a convenience store.”

“So, what you’re saying is that Hannibal could have been seriously injured or even dead had Birthright been subtle _at all,”_ Will scoffs.

“Let’s just count our blessings and be more careful from here on out, hmm?” Hannibal suggests, attempting to diffuse.

“Agreed,” Jack says, “That’s all we needed from you at least for now, Dr. Lecter. I’ll call later, keep you updated. Will?”

Will looks over at him, still pouting.

“Let me know when you come to a decision,” Jack says vaguely. He turns to exit the room, leaving the two of them alone once more.

“Decision?” Hannibal asks, wondering why Jack is so boldly asking things from someone currently on leave.

“Yeah, it’s uh. It’s what we need to talk about,” Will says.

Despite his phrasing, Will doesn’t appear nervous at all. The only emotion Hannibal can glean from him is irritation. Strange; what could be so important that even Jack understands it needs to be discussed at home? 

“My car?” asks Hannibal, remembering it was left abandoned at the convention center.

“I had it moved back to your place,” says Will, “Earlier, while you were still unconscious.”

“I see. Lead the way, then.”

Hannibal throws the sheets back eagerly, never comfortable being a patient himself. As soon as his feet touch the floor, Will offers his hand. Hannibal really doesn’t need the assistance but he accepts it anyways. With an equally unnecessary amount of force, Will pulls him up against himself and into a very much unanticipated kiss. His grip on Hannibal’s hand tightens almost to the point of pain while he cradles Hannibal’s jaw, licking into Hannibal’s mouth. Curious how this as-yet-unseen alpha will react, Hannibal remains motionless and nonreciprocal.

Will releases his hand and breaks the kiss, pulling back to peer up at Hannibal with suspicion. Hannibal believes he may have interpreted his inaction as reluctance, and is about to suggest they leave, but Will surprises him once more. His eyes flash red as he pulls Hannibal back in again, growling lowly against his lips. When Hannibal halfheartedly attempts to pull away, he grabs hold of the back of his head, keeping him firmly in place. Hannibal growls back, enjoying the game. He tries to remove Will’s hands this time, but all he manages is to slide them further down. He tries again and Will deliberately drags his nails down the back of his neck, eliciting an involuntary moan from Hannibal as sparks of electricity erupt from the skin there and spread outward, producing a pleasant tingling sensation all over his body. As much as he loves the sensation, he’s worried his reaction might reveal him.

Hannibal grabs Will around the waist and lifts him up, breaking the kiss and swinging him around to drop him onto the bed. Will blinks up at him with red-blue eyes full of dazed arousal.

“I too have something I would like to discuss later,” Hannibal says with a smirk, caressing Will’s cheek with the back of his knuckles, “when we’re alone.”

Will swallows heavily and nods. The red in his eyes fades quickly, replaced by a look of wonder. He steals one final, chaste kiss from Hannibal as he is pulled up from the bed. 

∞

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re alright!”

Abigail greets them both at the door, wrapping her arms around Hannibal as soon as he’s inside.

“I was so worried,” she says.

“So was I,” says Will, “None of this should be happening. I’m sorry I dragged you guys into this.”

“It’s not your fault, Will,” Abigail says before Hannibal can, “Everything’s on those Birthright creeps.”

“No one else,” Hannibal agrees.

“I wish I could say the same, and I’m glad you don’t blame me, really. I just want to make sure nothing like this happens again.”

Will looks between the two of them, considering.

“I was going to have this chat with just Hannibal, but seeing as it’ll affect both of you…”

“Oh?”

Abigail crosses her arms, giving Will a look that screams for him to spit it out already.

“In the study, maybe?” Will suggests. “Feels a little odd having an important conversation just in the foyer here.”

“Understandable. Let us move, then.”

Hannibal leads them into the aforementioned room, choosing the loveseat so as to leave space for Will to sit next to him. Will does, but he leaves ample space between them. Abigail hovers nearby, choosing to stand instead.

“What’s on your mind?” Hannibal asks once Will seems comfortable.

Will clears his throat. “As I’m sure you remember, I was assigned a security detail not long after Jack told me to ‘take a break.’”

“Yes, we both saw the photo you sent.” 

“I think it should be obvious now that it isn’t just me who needs protection,” Will says, “Although I doubt they would come after you again so soon, there’s no harm in being safe. Birthright knows where I live of course, they probably have someone watching my house. No one really knows about...us, yet, so they wouldn’t anticipate me moving in here.”

“...Oh. I see.”

It’s most definitely not what Hannibal was expecting to hear.

“Cool with me,” Abigail says with a shrug. “I mean, it’s obviously not my say, but you don’t gotta worry about me.”

Will huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t look away from Hannibal. “All up to you, then. Only…”

“Only?” Hannibal asks, dreading what he knows Will is about to say.

“I’d have to bring my dogs as well.”

Neither Will nor Abigail says anything after that admission, perhaps afraid whatever they add will offend Hannibal if they do. It’s not as big of a deal to Hannibal as they’re thinking. It is absolutely an inconvenience he’s not especially equipped to deal with, but Will’s dogs are very polite and well-trained. There shouldn’t be any real problems if the correct rules are set and followed.

“Are you afraid Birthright may attempt to harm them?” Hannibal asks.

“Kind of,” Will admits. “I can’t see the FBI guarding my dogs at a shelter somewhere. And if they did, it’s easier to see them splitting the detail I already have instead of getting a whole other team sent.”

“Mmm.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you, Hannibal. Really. I just think we’ll all be much safer if we stay together.”

“Makes sense,” Abigail says, “You’ve got a lot of rooms here. We can clear out one of them downstairs for the dogs to stay in.”

“I’ll take care of all their needs as usual, keep them in line, make sure they don’t ruin your garden out back,” Will says.

“And I can play with them when you guys are busy! So they won’t bother you so much when you get home.”

“There’s a dog park pretty close by, maybe five minutes’ walking distance? One of us could take them down there every day. You know, make sure they release all that pent up energy so they’re tired out by the time they have to be cooped up again.”

Hannibal chuckles. “Alright, I understand. Clearly the advantages of this arrangement outweigh the disadvantages. The dogs may stay as well.”

Will grins at him before leaning in to peck him on the lips, catching himself only after the deed is done. He freezes up, face turning beet red as he avoids Abigail’s delighted expression.

“Hey, no need to be so embarrassed,” she says, “I’ve known pretty much since the get-go.”

“What? How?” Will demands.

“Please, it was super obvious. You look like you can barely keep yourself from kissing him every time he’s nearby.”

“Wow, that’s...embarrassing. I really thought I was hiding it,” Will says, gaze drifting downwards towards Hannibal’s mouth to prove her point.

“If it’s of any relief, the feeling is mutual,” Hannibal says, tilting Will’s head just so as he leans in for a kiss.

“Oh shoot, I just remembered!” Abigail exclaims once they’ve pulled apart again, “I was supposed to meet Trey and his girlfriend at the Wing Stop down the street! I’ll be back in a couple hours. Bye!”

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, presumably to message Trey, then rushes out before either man can comment.

“That has to be the most obvious excuse I’ve ever heard,” says Will. 

“Indeed. I appreciate the gesture, though,” Hannibal says, kissing Will once more.

“Mmm...so?”

Hannibal readjusts his position, crossing his legs and pulling Will to nestle up against his side. “Do you remember when, in our last session, I told you I had a proposition for when next we met?”

“Uh, yeah. I remember.”

Hannibal looks down at him fondly, considering how best to present this opportunity to Will without scaring him off. If Will accepts, they’ll get to experience something few people ever have. He’ll likely gain access to another side of Will’s hidden alpha he’s yet to see, as well as another chance to further bind Will to himself without the use of a typical mating bond. His teeth are beginning to ache at the thought of finally feeling–

“About how long do you plan on keeping me in suspense?” Will chuckles nervously.

“My apologies. I was merely considering how best to present the concept to you. I have two options for you, actually. Similar but not at all the same. First though, I must ask: have you ever been the recipient in a sexual encounter before?”

“No,” Will says, shaking his head as much he can against Hannibal’s shoulder.

“As I suspected. The first option is exactly that; a simple reversal of our usual dynamic.”

“I’m listening.”

“The other is a more intense activity. It has the additional benefit of being rather therapeutic as well, but…”

“But?”

“It’s not something any typical psychiatrist would recommend,” Hannibal admits.

“The way I see it, there’s no point in us keeping to the rulebook at this point,” Will says, “Nor is there any in pretending you’re a typical psychiatrist.”

“Oh?”

“If you were, we wouldn’t be where we are now,” Will explains plainly.

“I must admit I have many doubts when it comes to the effectiveness of ‘typical psychiatry,’ but that’s a conversation for another time,” says Hannibal, carefully extricating himself from Will’s hold on him. “Now, if you’ll follow me upstairs. I find it may be easier for both of us if I show you my proposal.”

“Alright, lead the way.”

Will is putting on an air of excitement, but the way he trails behind Hannibal just so exposes his anxiety. Hannibal has no doubt he is willing to be penetrated at the very least, but he cannot ignore that there is a sizable chance he will see the implements Hannibal has procured and immediately turn tail and run. Alphas are naturally resistant to the idea of taking a submissive role during intercourse even without it being labelled a taboo practice. It’s no more than suspicion on his part for now, but Hannibal also suspects Will to be especially hesitant to the idea of being tied up. His reactions to Hannibal’s venom have been potent; more powerful than Hannibal could have expected. That information, combined with Will’s desperate attempts to project the image of an abnormally soft and gentle alpha have Hannibal wondering if Will doesn’t suffer from FRS, or ‘Feral Reproductive Syndrome.’

The condition is a relatively recent discovery dubbed by Professor Ahmed Salah a few years back. Despite its official classification as a medical condition, Hannibal personally believes it to be more of a psychological one. Salah is a beta who’s spent most of his life studying secondary genders. No matter how much one seeks to learn about others unlike themselves, a truly complete understanding is hard to come by. All that’s really known about FRS is that the alphas who are suspected of having it are highly dangerous during rut. Unlike everyone else, they stay red for a majority of the period. They aren’t fully in control of themselves for the entirety of their rut, opening the door for a number of accidents they cannot themselves prevent. Of those suspected to have FRS, nearly 85% also report a significant loss of memory to their sexologists. Another point towards Will having it.

If Hannibal is right and Will allows himself to be dominated now, with his rightful mate’s venom coursing through his veins, there could be consequences neither of them could dream of.

“Just a moment,” Hannibal says once they’ve reached the main bedroom, “There are some things I need to bring out first.”

“Okay.” Will eyes the bed nervously for a second before climbing onto it.

Hannibal walks over to the closet, opening the doors and reaching inside. He returns to the bed with two things: a navy blue, silk blindfold and a set of leather restraints with padded cuffs. Will swallows heavily upon catching sight of the restraints, but he remains where he is.

“You’ll actually need to get off the bed for a moment if I’m to get these ready,” Hannibal says, dangling the restraints in front of him as a sort of challenge. 

Will hesitates for a moment. He meets Hannibal’s eyes and, apparently satisfied by whatever he sees there, brings himself back to his feet. After dropping the blindfold onto it, Hannibal lifts the mattress enough to get the bottom part of the restraint system underneath it, then folds the ankle restraints up over the bottom end of the mattress and adjusts them until they’re as straight as he can get them. He repeats this motion with the wrist restraints. All the while, he can smell Will’s anxiety and arousal behind him. He picks the blindfold up once more and beckons for Will to come to him. Will nods and reaches for his belt buckle as he does.

“Ah-ah,” Hannibal says, “Not yet. There are still some things we need to discuss.”

“Like…?”

“I cannot go through with any of this until I know how much you think you’re capable of. I’ll also need a safeword in case you feel uncomfortable and wish to stop at any moment.”

“Omega,” Will says immediately.

Interesting choice.

Hannibal nods. “Fitting, considering what I am about to ask next. Have you ever been bitten by an omega?”

“...No.”

Why the hesitation? 

“But you are aware of its effects, yes?” 

“Of course.”

“Do you consent to me injecting you with a small amount of omega venom before proceeding?” 

Will hesitates once more, but his eyes give him away: he wants this.

“Yes. Please.”

His eagerness pleases Hannibal, but he can’t say for sure that Will understands what exactly he’s agreeing to. Hannibal himself isn’t entirely sure how this will go; the surprise is part of the fun. 

He steps up to Will and, after giving him a quick, closed-mouth kiss, begins undressing him. Neither man breaks eye contact until Will’s cock has been freed. Hannibal cannot resist the temptation, stroking it just once and thumbing the slit to catch the bit of precum that has beaded up. He brings that thumb up to his lips and licks it clean.

“Onto the bed,” he orders, “On your back.”

Will complies without any complaint. Any nervousness he showed earlier is gone now; replaced by earnest anticipation. He takes the blindfold from Hannibal without prompt, putting it in place and securing it around his head.

Hannibal secures his wrists and ankles into the restraints, tugging on them a bit to make sure they’re just tight enough. He then takes a moment to step back and really drink in the sight laid out before him: Will Graham–spread eagle on his bed with his hair lightly tousled, flushing from his cheeks down to his chest, engorged cock standing proud. Such a rare specimen, his lovely little alpha. No other he’s ever known would allow themselves to be ‘degraded’ like this. Not by a lover, not by another alpha, and certainly never an omega. He can’t help but wonder if Will still would have agreed, had he known. 

“Beautiful,” Hannibal says aloud.

He leans forward, bringing his face close enough that Will can surely feel his breath against his straining member. It twitches ever so slightly, confirming that as fact. Hannibal waits a few seconds then closes his lips around the head, hollowing out his cheeks before engulfing the entire length of it. 

A choked moan escapes the man before him. Hannibal smiles around him before pulling off completely. He moves to the end table on the right side of the bed, opening the top drawer and pulling out an unopened bottle of water-based lubrication. He opens it quickly, watching the rise and fall of Will’s chest as he does. He comes back around to crouch in front of him, pulling on the straps of the restraint system to spread Will’s legs a little further.

“This is the first real hurdle,” Hannibal says, “It’s natural as an alpha to feel threatened by what I’m about to do. No matter how willing you are, your body will fight against me at first. You needn’t contain your reactions no matter how fierce they are, but you may have me stop at any point if it becomes too much.”

“It won’t,” Will says, all confidence.

“We’ll see,” says Hannibal, coating two fingers in a generous amount of lube.

He presses those fingers against Will’s hole. Will flinches as a soft warning growl escapes him. Hannibal ignores it, rubbing gently in small, clockwise circles. Will’s legs soon begin to tremble with the effort of holding himself back.

“There’s no need for that,” Hannibal says. “The restraints are there for a reason, Will. You needn’t resist your instincts.”

Will growls at him again, teeth bared–no fangs yet, those are sure to come later. He takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment. Once he releases that breath, he relaxes his legs once more.

_Impressive._

Hannibal pauses his ministrations. “You’ll want to hold your breath again for this part.”

Without waiting for Will to do so, Hannibal applies enough pressure for his index finger to slip inside. Will gasps, flinching from the intrusion. His legs resume their trembling again and Hannibal can’t help but admire his determination. As a reward, he waits a minute for Will to grow accustomed to the foreign sensation before moving again.

“Hurry up,” Will orders through clenched teeth, “We don’t have all day.”

“As you wish.”

Hannibal removes his index finger, applying more lube. He allows time for Will to go lax again, then inserts two fingers as far as he can get them.

Clearly taken off guard despite having asked for it, Will snarls at him. His legs seize up as much they can with the restraints and his fangs shoot out with a tiny clicking sound. He still doesn’t tell Hannibal to stop.

“Good boy,” Hannibal praises, “You’re doing very well.”

A rather unique sound escapes Will; something between a hiss and a whine. Hannibal makes a mental note to analyze it later when he isn’t so preoccupied. He moves his fingers slowly at first but soon picks up speed. As soon as Will seems to have calmed down, Hannibal presses firmly up against his prostate. 

Will groans. “Fuck.”

Hannibal repeats the motion, continuing until Will is panting and writhing as much as he’s able. He withdraws then, standing up straight again.

“I must ask once more, Will. Do you consent to being injected?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

Hannibal nods, knowing Will can’t see it. He leaves the room to retrieve a vial of venom he keeps stored away in a freezer unit in the basement. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if it were to ever be discovered, but it would raise questions he would rather not answer. Will is certainly the type to ask them–Hannibal hopes this encounter itself will be answer enough.

Hannibal also takes the time to rinse off his fingers and pour himself a drink while he’s downstairs. He finds Will’s impatience endearing, and the idea of an alpha lying prone and open for him to take whenever he pleases is irresistible. He takes his time with the drink and the syringe, wholly unsympathetic to Will’s plight. When it’s been close to ten minutes since he left him, Hannibal finally takes the stairs again. Quietly.

Upon re-entering the room, he isn’t so sure Will hasn’t fallen asleep waiting for him. It isn’t until he’s close enough to smell him properly that he understands Will must have fallen into a sort of trance instead, either as a means of escape or as a way to keep from losing his mind while waiting. Whatever the reason, Hannibal approaches swiftly and pricks Will’s throat with the syringe, injecting his venom before Will has time to notice his returned presence.

Will flinches hard, fangs extending a bit more. His breath comes out harsh as the venom quickly takes effect. He’s heaving soon, his own venom leaking from his fangs in slow but steady streams over his bottom lip and running down his chin and throat. It’s clearly uncomfortable, even without the way Will flexes his right hand like he wants to wipe his mouth. Hannibal offers him no relief in that regard.

There’s still some time before the venom takes full effect. Hannibal returns to stand at the foot of the bed once more to undress, watching Will carefully. As he removes and folds his undershirt, he notices that Will has begun to shake. He’s down to his briefs when Will startles him by suddenly thrashing about, howling like an angry animal as he fights against the restraints.

There’s no way he’s strong enough to pull the restraints out from under the combined weight of himself and the mattress, nor tear himself free from the cuffs themselves, but he still manages to make Hannibal a little nervous. If by some miracle he does manage to free himself, Hannibal could find himself in quite a predicament. Talking Will down in such a state–likely full red–will be impossible. Physically overpowering him will be just as difficult when all of Will’s systems are working in tandem to ensure nothing can prevent him from mating. It’s the kind of high-stakes situation Hannibal normally enjoys, but the stakes this time are much, much higher.

He could be patient; wait until the venom’s mostly worn off before he touches Will again. They may not have much time for themselves left before Abigail returns in that case, but Hannibal won’t need to risk being bitten or worse. They’ll have another chance later, without the venom.

Hannibal remains undecided until his eyes inevitably drift to Will’s leaking cock. It’s barely been touched and yet he can see the beginnings of an out-of-season knot swelling at the base. 

_Irresistible._

Hannibal crouches at the foot of the bed and wraps a hand around Will’s cock. Will’s struggling has weakened over the course of Hannibal’s indecision, but it grows stronger now at the contact.

“Hush,” Hannibal says, fully aware that Will can’t possibly hear him over the desperate, inhuman sounds he’s making.

He strokes Will slowly, imagining how he would feel inside him. It’s tempting but goes against everything he’s currently trying to do. With his free hand, he reaches for the lube again. He squirts a small amount onto Will’s cock, making sure to get it all over his hand as well. Once Will has begun to quiet down a bit, Hannibal releases him in favor of prodding at his entrance again–more carefully this time, so as to avoid hurting him with all his wriggling about. 

Will’s answering snarl is ferocious, but Hannibal doesn’t relent. He breaches Will once more–this time with three fingers–and goes right for that sensitive spot. Will remains resistant, but the sounds he’s making are beginning to sound more like those of pleasure than of anger. It’s difficult to tell, really, but he hasn’t told Hannibal to stop (if he’s even capable at this point). Will clears everything up when Hannibal withdraws again, whining pitifully at the loss.

“Patience, sweet boy. You’ll have me soon.”

Finally, Hannibal removes his briefs, tossing them to the side instead of folding them away like every other garment. He slicks himself up with a generous amount of lube. Standing once again and crawling onto the bed, settling just before Will to line himself up properly, he glances at Will’s face to check for any sign of real discomfort. Seeing none, he pushes in almost to the hilt. Will goes perfectly still for a moment. It isn’t until Hannibal’s pulling back that his breath comes rushing out in the form of a broken moan.

“Much better,” Hannibal says.

He grips Will’s thigh with his left hand, smoothing his right along Will’s side as he grinds their hips together. Will is tight, as expected. Even as Will is clearly enjoying himself, his body is still fighting against Hannibal. He’s clenching around him in a way that would be more pleasurable were it not hindering Hannibal’s range of movement. His legs are straining against the restraints more than before, trying to close themselves without Will’s input. Thankfully, this sort of thing gets easier with time. Hannibal can’t imagine any real alpha couple would stay together if sex was always so difficult.

“You’re taking me so well,” Hannibal praises, “I should think you deserve a reward when we’re through, hmm?”

Will gulps audibly, no doubt swallowing some of his own venom as he does–it’s a good thing one is usually immune to one’s own venom. He gives Hannibal a jittery nod. Still marginally coherent, then.

“Can I trust you not to bite me?” Hannibal asks, punctuating the question with a particularly hard thrust.

Will hesitates this time. He turns his head to the side as if to say ‘no,’ but appears to change his mind when he nods immediately afterward.

If Hannibal were truly concerned, he wouldn’t trust such an uncertain answer. As it is, he’s reasonably sure he can keep himself just out of harm’s way, or move fast enough should he have to in order to avoid being bitten. He wouldn’t have bothered had he not suddenly found himself craving more physical contact than what he can get in their current position.

He leans forward onto his elbows, effectively draping himself over Will. Both of them gasp as their chests touch. Will begins to tremble again, but he appears to have himself mostly under control now. He’s no longer trying to escape his restraints, but he is straining to lift himself up enough to feel as much of Hannibal as he can.

Hannibal increases the speed of his thrusts, marvelling at Will’s self control. His skin is wet and shining all the way from his chin down to his chest with all the venom he’s lost. Hannibal’s throat is within range of his fangs–though the angle would be far from comfortable–and yet he makes no attempt to do anything but take what Hannibal gives him.

Emboldened, Hannibal lowers himself even further until they’re breathing against each other’s lips. Will swallows heavily once more, but he doesn’t try anything even when Hannibal kisses him, pressing his tongue up against the sharp points of his fangs and lapping up his venom straight from the source. He doesn’t return the kiss, only growls in frustration as Hannibal has his way with him.

The few drops of venom he’s just consumed aren’t nearly enough to affect him, but the thought of what he’s just done excites Hannibal so much that he’s unable to resist seeing just how far he can take this, how much he can get away with. He pulls away from Will, sitting up on his knees and ignoring the almost pained groan from him as he slips out once more. He reaches for Will’s left ankle, pulling the super-strength velcro tabs apart and freeing it from the restraint. Even with the soft material, it’s been rubbed raw from all the struggling. Hannibal presses a quick kiss to the reddest part of it before letting it drop back to the bed. He frees Will’s other ankle in similar fashion, then grabs hold of Will with a hand under each thigh. Catching on quickly, Will aids him by lifting his legs and hips as much as he can. Hannibal scoots closer with Will’s legs draped over his shoulders and removes the blindfold as well. Will’s eyes are so red they’re practically glowing, but there are a few specks of blue still visible.

“Love you,” Will says, though it’s heavily slurred.

Hannibal smiles, leaning forward to kiss Will again as he re-enters him. “I love you too, Will.”

Any traces of the kind, gentle omega within him are discarded as Hannibal sets a brutal pace, pounding almost directly against Will’s prostate with every thrust. Will shouts, squeezing Hannibal with his legs as if holding on for dear life. He begins to sob, making an even bigger mess of his face. Hannibal reaches between them for Will’s equally weeping cock.

“Omega,” Will whimpers.

Hannibal stops and lets go immediately. He thinks to move away, but Will’s legs are still squeezing him tight. He’s said the word–perfectly clear, with no room for misinterpretation–but does he mean it? Despite the tears, there’s only adoration and ecstasy on his face. Perhaps these positive emotions have overwhelmed him, then?

“Speak to me, Will. What do you need?”

“Oh...omega–”

“Do you need me to release you? Will, look at me. Use your other words. Are you finished?”

Will gasps underneath him, blinking through the tears. His mouth is moving, but there are no intelligible words coming from it. Hannibal leans closer, turning his head so that his ear is no more than a few centimeters away.

“Nnnn...not. Not.”

“Not what, Will? Speak a little more clearly, please. If you can.”

“Not. Not you,” Will murmurs, “Not you, please?”

“Not me?” Hannibal asks, concern in his voice.

“L-let me. Knot you. Please”

Ah.

“Hmmm…” Hannibal hums, pretending to think about it.

“Please. Please.”

Hannibal sighs. “Alright. You may knot me.”

He pulls out of Will, gently coaxing him to lower his legs. When he goes for the wrist restraints, though, Will presses one of his feet against his chest.

“No, not. Not like that,” Will huffs.

“You want to remain restrained?” asks Hannibal, pleasantly surprised.

Will takes a deep breath, then nods slowly.

“As you wish,” Hannibal says.

He climbs off the bed momentarily to retrieve the lube from where it’s fallen onto the floor. He’s not normally the sort to be so messy during sex, but it’s difficult not to let himself go when Will is involved. Hannibal has had no shortage of romantic and sexual partners over the years. Some were adept at lovemaking, some preferred him to take the lead, and others left much to be desired. Will can’t be put into any of those categories; he is as wholly unique here as he is elsewhere. Sex is normally something Hannibal only gets the taste for every so often; it’s something like a particular hunger which requires immediate attention. Once he’s had his fill, the hunger vanishes. His blockers and suppressants, while effective at hiding his secondary gender and preventing the most troublesome of biological functions that come along with it, do nothing to reduce his normal libido. It could be Will himself, or his unfiltered pheromones–or perhaps even both that are responsible for Hannibal’s recently overactive sex drive. Kidnapping aside, this Birthright chaos he’s induced has produced greater rewards than he could have predicted. 

Dismissing these thoughts, Hannibal returns to the bed.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer to do this yourself?” he teases, squeezing a bit of lube into his hand and reaching behind him.

Will blinks at him slowly, eyes remaining closed for longer each time. He must be exhausted after everything that’s happened today–no, the past few days at least. Did he sleep at all last night?

“Stay with me, Will,” Hannibal says, reaching forward and squeezing the beginnings of Will’s knot with his free hand.

Will’s eyes fly open immediately. Hannibal is a little disappointed to see that they’re mostly blue now, tiny flecks of red barely visible. 

“Still here,” Will mumbles.

“Good.”

Hannibal lowers himself onto Will’s engorged cock as carefully as he can. He can feel Will’s muscles tensing up as the full length of the shaft slides in effortlessly. The knot is another story, though. It’s inflated almost to its largest size already–not much smaller than Hannibal’s fist, he reckons. Even as slick as they both are, bearing down on it is no simple feat. Doing so sends shocks of pain and pleasure through him so powerful he almost wishes he could continue this way for hours. It ends rather quickly, to Hannibal’s disappointment, as the remainder of the knot pops inside and he fully seats himself. The effect on Will is immediate–he throws his head back with a silent scream as he climaxes, pulsing deep inside him.

Hannibal rubs his hands along every bit of skin he can reach while Will shakes through the aftershocks. As they are now, unbonded and in between mating seasons, their coupling isn’t much different from that of any beta pair. Despite having never actually experienced it any other way, Hannibal finds he prefers it like this. Still, he can’t resist imagining what Will’s knot would feel like if he were in heat. First and foremost, he would have no refractory period, and probably would have climaxed himself at least once before the knot and once during. His internal anatomy would have coaxed Will’s larger-than-normal cock past the thin barrier and into that hidden passage. He has no frame of reference for what it feels like to insert something there, but it’s said to be more pleasurable than the alternative. More sensitive. If it’s much better than this, he’s not so sure he could stop Will from coming inside. An unfortunate downside there; no medication currently available is effective at preventing pregnancy without also preventing heats. There are other options, though: he could swap his multipurpose suppressants for regular birth control, something that wouldn’t conflict with his blockers. It would have the added benefit of allowing him to produce his own slick again. This is all hypothetical, of course: none of this could happen without Will knowing. Hannibal doesn’t plan on telling him anytime soon.

He stretches as far forward as he can, careful not to tug on the knot too much as he reaches for the restraints. He undoes them with a great deal of effort thanks to their position. Will doesn’t react beyond flexing his undoubtedly sore hands at first. Hannibal isn’t paying attention, and so he misses any hint of what Will is about to do. He’s been laid out on his back and pinned to the bed–effectively swapped with Will–before he can react. 

“Will, what are you–”

An undignified, pained yelp escapes him as Will abruptly pulls out, making a proper mess of the sheets as most of his seed follows. 

“Don’t–”

Will thrusts back inside, ignoring Hannibal’s protests as he also grabs a hold of his softening cock. He fucks Hannibal mercilessly, pulling and tugging on his cock at a pace to match.

“Ah–Will!” Hannibal cries out, overwhelmed by the stimulation.

The sensation of Will’s still-inflated knot pressing into and tugging against his rim is _incredible._ He moves his hips as much as he can, chasing more of that feeling, but Will isn’t giving him much room. Where did that sleepy, distracted man from before go? 

Will leans forward, bumping their foreheads together. His pace slows to where he’s grinding more than thrusting, giving Hannibal more of what he most wants. His breathing is irregular, face scrunched up like he’s in pain. Hannibal can’t name what comes over him then, but whatever it is convinces him to grab Will’s face with both hands and pull him down enough so that he can access the side of his throat. He holds Will there until his legs begin to tremble from approaching orgasm, then sinks his teeth into the flesh. Will hisses at the pain and shoves his knot back inside.

They both groan, coming simultaneously. All the tension in Hannibal’s body leaves him at once as Will collapses on top of him.

“Leave it in this time, yes?” Hannibal suggests.

Will laughs so quietly Hannibal wouldn’t notice were they not so close. He nuzzles their faces together as he begins to purr like a contented housecat. 

Hannibal certainly hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but the combination of the soothing noise and post-orgasmic bliss are too powerful to fight against. He slips into unconsciousness just seconds after the purring stops.

∞

Hannibal awakens in a state of mild confusion. The light is still on in the bedroom, and his senses are telling him it’s still daylight hours. Will shuffles beside him and he immediately remembers everything. He turns over to look at him, careful not to wake him in the process. 

Even asleep, Will is beautiful. His hair is tousled and tangled, falling over his forehead in messy waves and curls. There’s a very obvious bite mark on his neck and his mouth is slightly parted, face still a mess. Hannibal is struck with the urge to retrieve a washrag with which to clean him up, but there’s something else he wants to do first while Will is still asleep.

He reaches for his tablet on the end table, annoyed to find it isn’t there. He must have left it somewhere downstairs earlier. He pulls himself up out of bed, disgusted but also a little aroused by all the dried fluids he’s covered in. He hesitates to get dressed, undecided as to whether he should bathe first only to retrieve his tablet and return. He could put something on just to get the tablet, then do what he needs to do with it before waking Will and coaxing him into a shared shower. Another look at Will is all he needs to convince him to pick the latter option.

He puts on the same briefs from earlier, trying not to cringe as he does so, then throws on a blue cotton robe. He hopes for all of their sakes that Abigail is either not yet home or otherwise too preoccupied to notice his presence as he descends the stairs. There’s no sight of her on the path he takes to the study. He retrieves his tablet from where it sits askew on the edge of the desk there and hurries back upstairs. Will has turned over in his absence but he looks no closer to wakefulness than he did before he left.

Hannibal reclines onto the bed once more, turning the tablet on. He enters the security key and opens his internet browser. With how often he visits the site, it made sense to make TattleCrime the default startup page. The homepage displays exactly what Hannibal had been wanting to see.

_Birth of a Conspiracy: Jeremiah Henderson facing 20 years, blames murder on the Chesapeake Ripper & outs FBI Special Investigator Will Graham as a Birthright defector!_

It would seem Birthright has somehow gotten a hold of the investigation details, or at least some of them. Hannibal severely doubts they would be able to identify Henderson’s captor as the Ripper on their own.

_Jeremiah Henderson, leader of the Eastern ‘chapter’ of notorious alpha supremacist group Birthright, faces 20 years in prison for the murder of esteemed artist and spokesperson George Brent. Henderson claims he was lured in and abducted by none other than the Chesapeake Ripper, but has no clue as to the prolific killer’s identity. Henderson blames the murder he is currently being charged with on the Ripper, despite the spit, venom, and bite patterns recorded from the body being identified as his own. Henderson claims The Ripper forced him to kill Brent or forfeit his own life, but an official statement from the FBI says they have found no conclusive evidence as to the involvement of another individual in Brent’s murder._

_Contrary to that statement, our anonymous sources tell us that Special Investigator Will Graham–now suspiciously on a leave of absence–openly suspected the Ripper’s involvement even before hearing Henderson’s tale. To add to the absurdity of it all, Henderson claims that an old New Orleans police badge he was given by the Ripper’s even more mysterious cohort not only proves Will Graham’s involvement in the case, but that the Special Investigator is in fact a defector and lone survivor from the Birthright southern chapter. Will Graham has yet to comment on this accusation, and his whereabouts are currently unknown._

_Adding more fuel to the fire, Maryland State Representative Jordan Peterson was arrested late last night for the abduction and subsequent drugging of Baltimore’s Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Lecter is a practicing psychiatrist and popular socialite who was attending a charity event at the new Saint Garner’s Convention Center. Rep Peterson was also in attendance at the event, and caught the attention of numerous individuals for, and I quote, “Trailing Hannibal all night, making everyone wonder if there was an invisible target on his back.” One of the attendees, an old friend of Dr. Lecter's, was quick to call the police when she noticed both Lecter and Peterson had seemingly vanished. Dr. Lecter was rescued relatively unharmed, save for a concussion suffered from being struck with a shovel. Linking this seemingly unrelated incident to the aforementioned Birthright chaos are the five Birthright members arrested at Jeremiah Henderson’s second home, where Dr. Lecter was taken, as well as rumors that Dr. Lecter is not only Special Investigator Will Graham’s psychiatrist (as you all surely know) but his secret lover as well._

Hannibal frowns at that last bit. He and Will haven’t done much in public to suggest such a thing, so he isn’t sure where the rumor has sprung up from. Better now that he’s no longer within the clutches of Birthright, he supposes.

_Representative Peterson was not arrested at the house, however–he was at home when police “nearly broke down his door”. Conflicting with the earlier account of an onlooker as well, several other attendees at the event claim that Peterson was not behaving in any malicious or otherwise suspicious manner. Cameras outside the building didn’t catch the representative leaving the event (and heading in the opposite direction) until nearly forty minutes after Dr. Lecter’s unconscious form was seen being stuffed into the back seat of a black SUV. The FBI claims Lecter identified Peterson as his captor by the sound of his voice, prompting the arrest. As for now, the representative is out on bail until his trial begins on December 26th._

“Well, well,” Hannibal murmurs aloud, “Prepared for this, were we?”

The rest of the article is mostly footnotes and information on how to send anonymous tips and various links, so Hannibal places the tablet on the end table to go relieve himself. He shaves while he’s in the bathroom, though his stubble is hardly grown out enough to even be called that. He grabs a washrag from the cabinet below the sink as well, getting it damp before returning to the bedroom.

“Morning,” Will greets him without looking away from the tablet he’s now holding.

Hannibal really should have thought to turn it off before leaving, he supposes. He hadn’t wanted Will to know yet, but there’s no undoing it now.

“Good morning,” Hannibal replies.

As he comes closer, Will stops scrolling long enough to look at him (and the rag).

“Thank you,” Will says, squinting pointedly at Hannibal as he takes the rag from his hand. He maintains eye contact as he wipes his own face, clearly annoyed at the idea of Hannibal doing it for him.

“I was just about to shower,” says Hannibal, “Would you like to join me?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Will groans as he gets out of bed. “Haven’t felt this simultaneously disgusting and satisfied in my whole life.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hannibal says, kissing him on the forehead as he comes close enough.

Will watches him undress again with interest, paying special attention to his thighs and groin. He waits for Hannibal to enter the shower first after adjusting the temperature of the stream and stepping into it. 

“Is there anything to do with you that isn’t so...extravagant?” Will asks as he steps in behind him. “Looks like you could comfortably fit three more people in here.”

“Is that your way of asking if I ever have?” Hannibal jests.

“That would be a ‘no’ then,” Will says, equally as playful.

“To answer your real question: I went Christmas shopping at the Bass Pro shop yesterday.”

“...you didn’t.”

“I made a quick stop at Petco as well.”

“Hannibal, you really didn’t have to. I mean–I really appreciate it, but it wasn’t necessary.”

“Perhaps not,” Hannibal says, “But this will be our first Christmas together. I can’t remember the last time I celebrated the holiday with family. I want this time to be special.”

While he shampoos his hair, Will moves closer and wraps both arms around his middle.

“Me too. My dad, uh. His version of Christmas involved getting drunk on cheap whiskey in front of the TV while the classics were playing. He’d try to make something for dinner some years, but it was never any good. He ordered Chinese takeout for both of us one year, and though we both had the same thing I ended up with food poisoning and he was fine. Still made me go to school the next day ‘cause he didn’t believe me, and I ended up having to run to the little boys’ room to puke my guts out.”

“That’s unfortunate. The more you speak of him, the more it sounds like your father was less of a parental figure than he was a powerful source of stress.”

Will shrugs. “It’s all in the past. He’s dead, plus I have you and Abigail now.” 

One of Will’s hands drifts downward to rest just above Hannibal’s groin as he nuzzles his face against the back of his neck.

“You may as well have bitten me, you know. I was debating if I should say anything, but...”

Hannibal stops breathing and every muscle in his body tenses up involuntarily. His heartbeat speeds up as Will presses a kiss to his nape like he _knows._

“I don’t actually remember most of what happened earlier.”

Hannibal turns to face him, forcing Will to relocate his hands to his sides as consternation and relief war within him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I kinda just...blanked out, a couple minutes after you injected me. There’s just a lot of empty space between then and, uh. The end,” Will admits sheepishly.

Hannibal frowns at him, more concerned now for Will’s well-being than his own secret.

“Have you had any additional memory problems between Stammets and now?”

“Not that I know of.”

Hannibal hums thoughtfully. It’s beginning to look like Will really does suffer from FRS, if such a small amount of his venom can cause memory loss like that.

“Have you noticed anything else out of the ordinary?” He asks.

Will is quiet for a moment, considering. “Nothing besides a little chest pain when I first woke up. Only lasted a few minutes though.”

Too much venom, then?

“How odd. It shouldn’t be any real cause for concern, though, unless it returns.”

Will nods, then “We should actually wash off before the water gets cold.”

“The water doesn’t go cold unless I want it to,” Hannibal says.

Will chuckles, reaching for the nearest washcloth and squirting a dollop of vanilla and cinnamon-scented liquid soap onto it.

“Turn around, I’ll wash your back for you.”

Hannibal does, unaccustomed to being cared for but open to the opportunity. Will is a bit rougher than he normally would be, but he supposes it means he’ll do a better job at scrubbing off those dead skin cells. He doesn’t protest when Will takes it upon himself to wash more than just his back, nor does he reprimand the eager alpha when he reaches around him with his free hand, repurposing the soap in his attempt to pleasure him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me ranting about my favorite shows and posting fanart/commissions and fic updates at:
> 
> twitter.com/NinPotato1 [Main - NSFW]  
> ninpotato.tumblr.com [SFW fic updates + Art]  
> instagram.com/ninpotato [Art only]

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a set update schedule, but I try to get a new chapter up every two or three weeks. No guarantees though, since I've recently become unemployed and need to find another source of income ASAP. I post sneak peeks of this fic and others on my tumblr (ninpotato.tumblr.com) and twitter (@NinPotato1), so be watching those if you don't feel like waiting for the full chapters every time. I also post art & do commissions at ko-fi.com/ninpotato
> 
> Kudo's and comments are greatly appreciated! <3


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